


Verity's Story

by RileyAnnaOlson



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (Until it's not), Canon Compliant, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fred Weasley Lives, Friends to Lovers, Hogwarts Era, Malfoy Manor, Minor Canonical Character(s), Secret Relationship, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and other secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25143589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyAnnaOlson/pseuds/RileyAnnaOlson
Summary: I tried to write a small Save Fred fic my freshman year of high school, and it got away from me and became so much more. Presenting the life and times of Verity MacLaren: her upbringing in Malfoy Manor, her struggles at Hogwarts, and her friendship (and more) with one Fred Weasley.This fic has been sitting on my Google Docs since 2012, and I'm finally posting it, only lightly edited, because young Riley put a hell of a lot of work into it, and you know what? More people should see it. She deserves it (She being high school Riley and also Verity, whom I have grown deeply fond of).
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Verity/Fred Weasley
Kudos: 2





	1. The Pensieve

**Author's Note:**

> I include chapter titles from Harry Potter that line up with the each chapter/scene, since Harry and Verity are the same age and many of their adventures happen around the same time.

_(Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ — _Chapter 7: The Boggart in the Wardrobe)_

Verity twisted her hands in her lap and avoided eye contact with Professor Dumbledore, braced for a scolding.

"Miss MacLaren," he said, "allow me to reassure you that you are not in trouble. I've heard a great deal about you from Professor Snape. I am merely curious how you came to live at the Malfoys and, if I may say so, a sort of personal assistant to Mr. Draco Malfoy." She glanced at him through her hair, afraid. He was smiling.

"Can we…may we use the Pensieve, sir?" she asked, rubbing her arm. Dumbledore seemed amused, perhaps that a third year knew the purpose of the stone basin on his desk, but he agreed. She pressed her wand to her forehead and withdrew a long silver thread, which she deposited in the Pensieve. Four, five, six threads followed it, and the silvery-white in the basin swirled faster and faster.

"After you," he said. Verity took a deep breath and plunged her face in. Her feet left the ground and the world went black.

She and Professor Dumbledore landed on the grounds of Malfoy Manor at night. Sheets of rain clouded the moon, pounded the paths into swamp, and beat a wild dance on the roof of the manor. She shivered.

A wispy figure clutched the gate with white hands, golden hair stringy and limp, wrapped in a threadbare cloak much too big. A plaintive cry echoed across the grounds. "Can anybody hear me? Please let me in."

Professor Dumbledore's expression was halfway between interest and pity. "I can't remember my parents," she said. "Everything I remember before this is vague. Never having enough. Being cold and tired and hungry. Then I found this place. I couldn't imagine anything better than a day in that gorgeous house."

The tiny girl, chilled blue, tried to squeeze through the bars. Finding them too close-set for even her slight frame, she stepped back in despair. She swayed on her feet, then slipped to the ground, unconscious. The memory faded.

The room that appeared next differed startlingly from the storm-ravaged grounds. The furniture was plain but comfortable. Rosy morning sunlight streamed through a high window. The young Verity lay curled in the sturdy bed, a patchwork quilt over her face.

She stirred and sat with a tremendous yawn. Observing the room curiously, her eyes widened. She gasped at the sight of a little boy at the door. His pale face and white-blond hair sharply contrasted his neat black cloak. He gazed at her, intrigued.

"What's your name?" he said. She didn't answer. "I'm Draco. I live here. Do you live here? I didn't hear about it. Are you a Mudblood? Mother and Father hate them. I don't know what they are, but I hate them too. I'm going to Hogwarts in six years, and I'll play Quidditch and be a prefect and Head Boy and be important like Father. Will you go to Hogwarts? You won't if you aren't a witch. If you aren't a witch, Father won't let you stay. How did you get here?"

Before he could continue barraging her with questions, a stout, middle-aged witch, dressed as practically as the room was furnished, bustled into the room. She stopped short when she saw the boy. "Master Draco? What are you doing here?"

"The door was open, and I saw her." He pointed to the girl. She gave an embarrassed wave.

The woman rushed past Draco to Verity's bedside, ignoring his demands to know how this girl had come to be in _his_ house. "Oh my dear, did you sleep well? Are you feeling well? Such a fright you gave me, came out in the morning and found you drenched through, poor dear. Can I get you anything?" Verity smiled as the woman fussed over her. Draco left in a huff.

"He hasn't changed," Verity said under her breath, and Dumbledore chuckled.

In a minute, the door flew open, and Narcissa Malfoy swept in followed by Draco, who looked insufferably pleased with himself. "MacLaren!" Verity slipped under the covers until only her brown eyes showed. "My Draco told me—what is that?" she said of the child huddled in bed.

"Most likely what Master Draco was tellin' you about, ma'am," the witch MacLaren said, curtsying.

"Why is it in my house?"

"You see ma'am, I saw her outside the gate and I didn't suppose it'd be right human to leave her in the wet and cold, so I brought her in. I thought, maybe, she could stay and I could take care of her. I'd train her up, and she'd likely be right useful. If you and the master approved, of course," MacLaren faltered.

Mrs. Malfoy stepped closer to Verity to inspect her. The girl sat up ever so slightly, so the quilt slipped away, and offered Mrs. Malfoy a shy, awkward smile. As if she'd seen a ghost instead of an orphan, recognition—and shock—broke over Mrs. Malfoy's stern face. She regained her composure and strode to the door, saying, "She stays. Come, Draco." The boy grasped his mother's hand, staring over his shoulder as they left Verity and MacLaren alone.

MacLaren smiled encouragingly and sat on the edge of the bed. "What's your name, then, dearie?"

"Don't know," she replied in a low voice.

"You don't know? Have you got a name at all?" She shook her head. "We'll find a good name for you, sweetheart." MacLaren's brow furrowed as her brain worked. "I thought if I had a little girl of my own, I might call her Verity. It's such a pretty name, truth it means. And you look like a proper Verity, don't you think?" The little girl didn't respond, but a faint light came into her eyes. "You'll need a last name too, just in case. The Malfoys wouldn't take kindly to me giving you theirs, but you don't want to be one of them anyway, so I suppose mine's the most convenient. Verity MacLaren. How's that sound, darlin'?"

"MacLaren became like a mother," said the grown-up Verity. "I followed her around and learned right away how to keep house. The Malfoys didn't keep me out of the goodness of their hearts." She ran her fingers through her hair. "A few months later, she became very sick, and...and then I was alone again." Her memory swirled away.

They next arrived in the magnificent drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Long, black velvet curtains were pulled shut against pale winter sunbeams. Wall-mounted candles reflected on the chandelier, casting strange patterns of flecked light and shadow across the three figures in the room.

Verity, now eight or nine, stood against the wall, hands behind her back. Draco lounged in a winged armchair. His neatly fitted robes looked even more expensive compared to Verity's too-large, stained dress and bare feet. A nasty purple bruise bloomed spectacularly on his face and swelled one eye shut. He could have been a picture of a martyred saint, except when he sneaked devilish, smirky glances at Verity. Lucius Malfoy, one gloved hand resting on the marble mantelpiece, turned away from the children.

"I am disappointed." His voice was quiet, but in the silent room, it echoed. "After we gave you a home under our very roof, this is how you repay us? Why did you curse my son?" She bit her lip and stared at the floor. He strode over to her and lifted her chin so she had to make eye contact. "I repeat," he said, "why did you curse my son?"

"I-I didn't," Verity murmured. "I'm sorry, sir."

Lucius's lip curled in disgust. "Don't lie to me." He whisked his black-and-silver wand out of his robes. "I find my wand where I did not leave it, a curse the last spell it performed, and my son is injured."

Verity's face was white. "It wasn't me!" she whispered.

He leaned in. "Child, if you touch my wand again you'll be on the streets before an hour has passed. Now go to your room. Draco," his son resumed his air of martyrdom as he turned around, "make sure she gets there."

Draco followed Verity out of the room with a spring in his step, Dumbledore and the older Verity close behind. "Now I'm not so mad that spell backfired," he said. "If I know Father—which I do—you'll be there a month at least. That's worth an old bruise any day."

Down one corridor and another they marched as Draco cheerfully rattled off ways to kill her if she bothered him again.

"...or I'll push you off the roof, or get you eaten by a giant snake, or make you drink that bottle in the dining room cabinet..."

Up a dark, narrow staircase, and into the attic where Verity lived.

"Have fun with the spiders, _Mudblood_." He sneered and slammed the door. As she sank onto the broken mattress in the corner, the room darkened and disappeared.

"I got my letter! I got my letter!" They were still in the attic, but several years had passed since they last saw her. More refuse was piled about, and she had improved the corner that served as her bedroom. Next to the old mattress sat a squashy grey armchair with a tear in the seat and no legs.

"I got my letter!" Verity, eleven years old, danced in and out of the scarlet rays of sunset. She clutched a parchment envelope, and the address, written in green ink, was just visible when she stopped spinning:

Miss Verity MacLaren

The Attic

Malfoy Manor

Wiltshire

"What's this noise?" Draco burst into the attic, holding his own letter. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Verity happy. "What is this?"

She danced over to him and held out the letter. "I'm going to Hogwarts!" she cried. "I came in and there was a great big owl outside my window, so I let it in, and it gave me this. I'm going to Hogwarts!" She stopped dancing but her eyes shone.

Draco glared at her. "There's been a mistake. They can't let _you_ go. You're a Mudblood."

She stopped short, deflated. "You don't know that," she said, but her face clouded.

"They let in the riff-raff, but they shouldn't. Father says it's a disgrace, all the nobodies who get in these days. Even if you get in, you'll be in a bad House. You'll probably be in Hufflepuff. Where the useless wizards go. Or maybe it _was_ a mistake." He looked more hopeful. "Maybe I won't have to go to school with you after all."

Verity sat cross-legged on her bed and opened the letter. "It has my name on." She read it aloud. "Dear Miss MacLaren, we are pleased to inform you...accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And on and on. I don't think it was a mistake."

"Fine, then." Draco gave up that point, but hit on another, better one. "But see those books and things you'll need. How will you buy them, hm? I hope you don't think Mother and Father will pay for you."

As she read the supply list again, she realized how long it was. She dove under her chair and resurfaced with a dusty jar. She dumped a small pile of Knuts and one lone Sickle onto the table. Draco snorted.

"You expect to buy your things with _that_? So much for Hogwarts." He left the attic with a laugh.

Verity looked at her meager savings, crestfallen. She counted it a few different ways, biting her lip, as though she had miscounted and there really was enough somewhere. The memory went black again, and they landed in the next morning.

Little Verity stretched in bed. Rubbing her eyes, she caught sight of a small trunk with battered corners on the table, the lid open. She leapt out of bed and flew to it, stretching on her toes to see in. With a gasp, she tugged it onto the floor to retrieve the contents. As she piled it on the bed, she discovered nearly everything she needed for the first year at Hogwarts. Though second-hand, any supplies were infinitely better than nothing. She rummaged through books, black robes, a cauldron and set of scales, and in the very bottom found a small bag of Galleons and a note.

The real Verity moved behind her younger self and read the note for Dumbledore. "Ask the man at the Apothecary for basic potion ingredients, then go to Ollivander's for a wand. You will do well at Hogwarts." She turned away from the ecstatic girl. "Unsigned. Draco wasn't happy when he found my new things, but he didn't do anything. I slipped away in Diagon Alley to buy the rest of my supplies, and I was off." Again, her memory faded into black.

A line of first years stood in varying states of nervousness, facing the four House tables, waiting to be Sorted. Little Verity stood rigidly near the end of line, between Draco and one of the Patil twins. Verity was struck by how unobtrusive she appeared. Scanning the line of first years, her eyes slid over her younger self as though she wasn't even there.

Professor McGonagall stepped to the front, carrying a three-legged stool and an old, dirty hat, which she placed on top of the stool. Young Verity's face twisted in confusion. "I thought we might have to wash it," Verity said, and Dumbledore chuckled. "It was all I could think of."

At last, "MacLaren, Verity!" Professor McGonagall's voice rang out, and she stepped to the stool with shaking hands. Draco watched her intently, his pale eyes narrowed. Verity and Dumbledore heard Marcus Flint grunt to one of his trollish friends, "A Sickle says Hufflepuff."

As Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on the little girl's head, Verity remembered her surprise to hear a voice in her ears. She still knew every word as though only a day had passed.

"More to you than first appears, eh? Clever girl, a perfectionist. You want to know who you are, but you want to find yourself someone of worth. You're well practiced in looking out for yourself," the hat chuckled, "and tricky when it serves you best. The only House you belong in is..."

"SLYTHERIN!"

Little Verity sat at the nearest table, beaming. Loud applause greeted her, though Marcus Flint handed his friend a Sickle under the table with a grimace.

"Malfoy, Draco!" said Professor McGonagall. Draco swaggered to the stool, a picture of confidence (the opposite of Verity). The Sorting Hat touched his head and shouted "SLYTHERIN!" It didn't have a hard time seeing all there was to Draco. He sat next to Verity to a round of cheers.

"You made it into a good House after all, _Miss_ MacLaren," he said with a smirk, lowering his voice. "Father says Salazar Slytherin was _awfully_ particular about who he let into his House. I'm surprised a Mudblood made the cut. Of course, now I can't be rid of you, I shall have to make use of you. You can carry my books between classes," he said decidedly. "Maybe more later, we'll see. And if you complain, I'll send an owl to Mother and Father and you'll get in trouble." He turned his back to talk to his friends Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, who were a few seats lower. The older Verity's feet left the ground as she and Dumbledore traveled to one last memory.

They landed in the Potions classroom, at the end of an early lesson first year. The students left the classroom in twos and threes. Verity left last, as she was packing not only her own, but Draco's supplies. She finally headed for the door, her own books in her bag and Draco's in her arms, when Professor Snape stopped her.

"Miss MacLaren, I want to see you in my office."

"Yes, sir." She followed him, still clinging to Draco's books. He gestured at a hard stool in front of his desk, and she sat on the edge, running her fingers over a mark on the inside of her forearm.

"I wonder if you have some idea why you're here," he said slowly.

Verity said nothing, racking her brains for what she might have done to get in trouble, or maybe trying not to cry.

"You've been doing Mr. Malfoy's homework." It wasn't a question.

Little Verity rubbed her arm harder. "Only—only the bits he couldn't do, sir," she said.

"In the classroom, your work consistently surpasses his, but his essays score higher. I became...suspicious."

"I swear I won't ever again."

"I should hope not. You understand this means five points from Slytherin." She deflated. "And I expect to see you in my office eight o'clock Thursday night."

"Am I in detention, sir?" she asked, her voice wavering.

"You are beginning private lessons," he said shortly. His words took a moment to land, but when she understood it seemed her birthday and Christmas had come all at once. "Yes sir," she said, "thank you sir." Her eyes shone as she leapt to her feet, collecting her books. "I won't be late, sir. Good night, Professor Snape." She skipped out of the dungeon, unable to contain her excitement.

The instant young Verity passed under the classroom door, a great splash and a squeal. A now-empty bucket of water hit the flagstones with a thud, the levitation spell holding it over the door gone. She whipped around, and a spray of water flew from her hair. Voices. She crept toward them.

"You idiot, you said this would work!"

"Who are you calling an idiot? It did work!"

"Did it hit Snape?"

"It hit somebody!"

"Did that look _anything_ like Snape?"

Catching sight of Verity with a puddle under her feet, the boys cut their argument short. They were a few years older than her, with flaming red hair and Gryffindor robes, identical to the sheepish expressions on their freckled faces. One of them leaned to the other and whispered, "I said that wasn't Snape, troll-brain." The other shrugged as if to say oh well, bit late to change it.

Wrinkling her nose, little Verity turned her back on the crazy twins. The corridor swirled in a blur of color, and Verity was dragged upward and away from her memories.

She and Dumbledore landed back in his office. Nothing had changed in the...how long since she had come in, terrified she would be expelled? The sun had barely changed its position outside the window.

"Most interesting," Dumbledore said, more to himself than Verity. "Miss MacLaren, thank you for allowing me your time and your memories."

"Good night, Professor," she said. Before she made it to the door, she stopped. "Professor Dumbledore? How close is the Ministry to catching Sirius Black?"

"I do not think," he said, "they are as close as the _Daily Prophet_ would have you believe."

"Oh."

"Why do you ask?"

"I—I don't like the dementors, sir. I know no one does," she added, "but when they get near me I hear a woman...laughing. Are they laughing? No one else hears her."

Professor Dumbledore's gaze fixed on her. "The dementors force us to relive our worst memories. That voice must be from your past. I cannot, however, say exactly whose it is."

"Professor, could it be my mother?" She couldn't imagine her mother having the cruel, wild laugh that sent shivers up her spine, but it sounded like neither Mrs. Malfoy nor MacLaren, and she remembered no other women.

"I'm afraid I cannot say."

"Thanks anyway," Verity said. "Good night, Professor Dumbledore."


	2. Her Classmates

_(Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ — _Chapter 7: The Boggart in the Wardrobe)_

The wardrobe stood before her, dark wood gleaming, perfectly ordinary—except it rattled ominously. A boggart waited inside to show everyone their worst fear, and by some cruel trick, there she stood at the front of the line.

"Verity, right?" asked Professor Lupin. She nodded. Her sweaty hand slipped on her wand. "Well, Verity, what would you say you're most afraid of?"

She tried to pick just one. She hated the sight of her own blood, she didn't like the dark, and if it lived in the Forbidden Forest it scared her, but most afraid of?

"Mr. Malfoy—sir." The class laughed. Even Professor Lupin chuckled.

"Sounds about right," she heard him say under his breath. She wondered through her nerves how Professor Lupin knew Mr. Malfoy, but his next words gave her more to worry about.

"Now, when that boggart comes out of the wardrobe, it will take the form of Mr. Malfoy. Your job is to force it into a shape you find comical. Can you do that?" She nodded again, hardly hearing his words. As he moved to the wardrobe, she realized what she'd agreed to. His hand closed on the doorknob of the rattling wardrobe.

Lucius Malfoy stepped out of the dark interior of the wardrobe. His thin mouth narrowed maliciously as he advanced on Verity. Draco's eyes burned holes in her back. Raising her wand, she said in as calm a voice as she could muster, " _Riddikulus!_ "

Boggart-Lucius staggered, and the room erupted with laughter. His pristine black robes became a pink pinafore dress. His sleek blond hair tied into two pigtails and topped with a pink bow. Professor Lupin turned away, but his shoulders shook with laughter.

Verity backed away to make room for Theodore Nott. She giggled uncontrollably, and as the others smiled, she harbored a faint hope; perhaps she'd be liked if she was funny. Then she saw Draco's face. He was not laughing. The smile disappeared from her face. She would pay for that.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. She didn't even notice the laughter for the braces on the teeth of Tracey Davis's boggart-vampire, or the fact Goyle's boggart was the giant squid.

"Good work," Professor Lupin said as the bell rang. "Five points to Slytherin for everyone who tackled the boggart, and ten to Mr. Malfoy for answering my questions at the start of class." The rest of the third years left in a state of excitement, chatting about the lesson and one another's boggarts. Draco, however, thrust his books into Verity's arms so hard she staggered, and, glowering, swept out of the staffroom.

He accosted her again once she walked through the common room door. "I've owled Father," he said. "He'll be very interested to hear about our Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson."

Without a word, she slumped into the armchair farthest from the fireplace and tugged her Charms homework out of her bag.

At breakfast two days later, a gloating Draco informed her that his father had told him to tell her that when they got home, she would be scrubbing the entire kitchen—without magic. And when she finished, she could dust every piece of furniture in the drawing room. And that she had gotten off easy. Lucky me, she thought.

* * *

_(Chapter 13: Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw)_

Verity sat on the edge of the leather armchair, far from the fireplace around which the other Slytherins whispered. With hair tucked behind her ears and a book balanced on her lap, she chewed on her ragged quill and tried to remember an eighth use for essence of belladonna in potion-making. The essay required five (and she happened to know Crabbe had two, both incorrect and horribly misspelled), but Professor Snape expected more from her.

Pansy Parkinson's hyena laugh cut through the haze of muttering. Verity didn't move. Pansy shouldn't have bothered straining her voice so. She already knew they were talking about her.

The door hit the wall with a bang, and Draco stormed in, Crabbe and Goyle trotting to keep up with him. Pansy ran to Draco's side for a nasty tale about Harry Potter; Draco had that look.

As they passed Verity, Draco waved his hand lazily, and Crabbe slapped her ink off the arm of the chair. It splattered all over her legs, her Potions book, and what had been an almost-completed essay. "Oh, no!" Verity tried to mop the ink off her book with the ruined parchment. As she reached to her bag, Goyle snatched it and, with a snigger, drop-kicked it into the circle of firelight. Her books fell everywhere, and she groaned again.

"For God's sake, clean up your mess, MacLaren." Draco collapsed into Pansy's vacated chair. Pansy giggled appreciatively and rested her head on his knee. Forcing deep breaths, Verity braved the center of attention to gather her scattered books.

"Draco," Pansy said, "what's the matter? What happened?"

Disgust came over Draco's face, and Verity took advantage of his diverted attentions to escape the circle and return to her chair. "Potter happened. As usual," he spat. "I hate him. _Hate_ him!"

"Was he still gloating about Quidditch?" she said in her most sympathetic voice. With a sigh worthy of tragic theatre, he launched into his tale of woe.

Verity had priorities before listening to another of Draco's tirades. All but the top ten inches of her essay was lost in a black puddle. Crying with frustration, she tugged out her wand, erased two feet of parchment, and started over. _Uric the Oddball believed essence of belladonna could be used..._

"And that Weasley," Draco drawled, "putting on airs like he's Head Boy, but I swear, the only person at this school poorer than him is MacLaren." _...could be used with gillyweed stalks as a cure for several illnesses, including..._

Pansy's grating voice forced its way into her thoughts as she scribbled down illnesses. "She has what, three Knuts?"

Draco sounded insufferably pleased with himself. "Only because I lent them to her." Laughter echoed off the walls. Verity, biting the inside of her cheek, (you must be so proud, _clever_ boy, did you think of that yourself?) made a valiant effort to finish her sentence. _...but in a disastrous experiment, he disproved this theory. Luckily, a timely intervention by a Healer removed both his gills and the violet spots on his tongue._ She paused to remember what she had said next, tracing a circle on her forearm.

Millicent Bulstrode spoke now. "What's the freak do with her arm?"

"She's always done it," said Draco. "It's a tick. Like the Muggles in insane asylums." More laughter, more turning to check her response. _...removed both his gills and the..._

Verity gave up in despair. One could only explain so many uses for belladonna essence under such circumstances. She rolled up her parchment, and headed for the third year dormitory.

She didn't see the person in the way until she walked into him.

"Watch it, kid." Marcus Flint stood over her, all six feet and several hundred pounds of him.

She shrank back. "Sorry," she muttered.

Flint chuckled. "Done a good job on her, Draco," he called. "Knows her place."

"Yeah." Draco smirked at her. "She does."

Verity moved to pass Flint, but he held his arm out. "Hey," he said. "Wash these before the next match." He shoved a tangle of Quidditch robes into her arms.

"The laundry..." she said faintly.

"Won't take as much care with them as I'm sure you will." Flint smiled. He tossed a couple brooms on top of the pile, and she staggered. "Polish the handles while you're at it." As she passed him, he pulled her hair, and her eyes watered. The last thing she heard before she shut the dormitory door was Draco applauding.

She dumped the robes and broomsticks on her bed, glaring at them as if they had done her a personal wrong. Then she collapsed onto the bed beside them, swearing a blue streak into her blankets that would have surprised even Draco.

Five minutes passed before she realized she'd rubbed her arm until it chafed under her robes. She tugged up her sleeve. Still visible through the redness was the odd mark she'd puzzled over as long as she could remember.

She might have thought someone drew on her arm in ink, then tried to rub it off before it dried. It was the same washed-out grey, but didn't come off in the usual ways, and who would draw such an arbitrary shape? She couldn't remember where she'd seen it.

She rolled over and kicked the Quidditch things to the floor. Perhaps she could finish her essay before the other girls came in. Or maybe her time would be better spent ensuring that Pansy drank undiluted belladonna essence. Madam Pomfrey might not agree that Hogwarts benefited from a poisoned Pansy, but incapacitating her for a week would be lovely.


	3. A Great To-Do

_(Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ — _Chapter 16: The Goblet of Fire)_

Verity leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring absently at the flickering blue flames in the Goblet of Fire. Students milled in and out, but she hadn't seen anyone yet put their name in.

Earlier, Draco had wavered for fifteen minutes an inch outside the Age Line, in two minds whether to brave whatever consequences it had for underage applicants. In the end he lost his nerve and slinked away, muttering to Crabbe and Goyle: "Dumbledore, that old Muggle-loving fool, wait until my father hears about this, _my_ father knows Cornelius Fudge, he'll make Fudge take off the Age Line, _then_ we'll see..."

She couldn't see why Draco was so worked up. If he'd like to risk life and limb for fame and money, let him whine to his father. All eyes on her for the whole year, danger at every turn...it wasn't worth it. Let the brainless and muscle-bound enter.

Loud laughter erupted from the staircase. Three Gryffindor boys rushed down the stairs. Two of them were identical, and had the fiery red hair that marked them as Weasleys, while the third was darker and wore his long hair in dreadlocks. All three burst with pride. The typical Gryffindor emotion.

Harry Potter stood near Verity with Ron Weasley and that Hermione Granger girl Draco hated so much. The three older boys stopped and whispered to them. "The Aging Potion, dung brains," she heard one of the Weasley twins say.

She rolled her eyes. Speaking of the brainless.

She hoped they didn't think an _Aging Potion_ would get them across. Even idiots should know that was one of the first things Dumbledore protected against when he made the Age Line. On the other hand, that did explain why the horsehair was missing from Snape's cupboards.

Curious, she watched one of the twins step over the line, a slip of parchment in his hand. Nothing happened to him, so his brother followed with a joyous yell. The crowd shouted appreciatively, but cheers turned to gasps as, with a sizzle, both twins were ejected from the circle, landing heavily ten feet away. With a pop, long white beards to rival Dumbledore's sprouted on both their faces.

Verity raised her eyebrows as they and the rest of the hall dissolved into laughter. Idiots.

"I did warn you." Dumbledore stood in the door from the Great Hall, deep amusement on his face. He sent the twins and their ridiculous beards to the hospital wing, and they set off with their uproariously cackling friend.

As they passed, one of the twins saw the disdain on her face. He grinned at her. She rolled her eyes again. Gryffindors, honestly.

* * *

_(Chapter 22: The Unexpected Task)_

"Verity, I want a word." Draco's voice echoed in the deserted common room, but it wasn't his usual commanding. She kept her back to him.

"Yes?" She set her books on the oak desk, voice deceptively level. He hadn't called her by her first name since they came to Hogwarts.

"You've heard about the Yule Ball," he began, strolling across the room toward her. That was the height of understatement, but she knew better than to say so. The school had buzzed with nothing but dresses and dates for weeks. "I assume you don't have a date." He'd hit the nail on the head again, but again she said nothing. Thanks mostly to him, she didn't exist the other Houses, and the Slytherin boys solidly hated her. Of course she didn't have a date. He put his hands on the table around her, pinning her there. "Neither do I."

This stopped Verity's sarcastic inner monologue in its tracks. Draco Malfoy, with pretty girls fawning over him wherever he went, hadn't found a date? How high were his standards?

A shiver raced up her spine as he touched her hair. "I couldn't help but notice," he said in a greasy voice, "you've grown up rather well."

Verity shivered again. Was he asking her to the dance? Images flashed through her mind. Gliding into the Great Hall on his arm, the boys' double-takes, Pansy's horror. They followed Draco's lead; if she was in his good graces, surely they would accept her too. She tried to imagine having them as friends, but couldn't quite visualize it. She'd never had proper friends. It sounded nice.

On the edge of saying yes, memories replaced fantasies. Years of taunts and insults, training his classmates to ignore her at best and torment her at worst. He expected to erase that? She felt like someone had slapped her awake, and she was glad they had.

"No," she whispered.

He stepped back. "Pardon?" He smirked like it was funny.

"No," she repeated, only slightly louder, and she finally faced him, though she still couldn't meet his eyes. "I...I can't go to the dance. Not with you."

Draco laughed. "Don't play hard to get, MacLaren. I doubt you'll get another offer."

"I know," she said. "I'm not playing. I don't—" Her resolve stiffened, though she couldn't force out her last words above a whisper. "I'm sorry, but...no. And please stop acting like you're grown up and seductive because you're fourteen and greasy and your voice isn't done changing—"

Draco frowned. "Fine." He swept to his dormitory without another word.

Alone again, Verity sank into an armchair and stared unseeing into the greenish-black water outside the window. This explained why Draco had been uncommonly decent lately, and why he looked at her strangely when he thought she couldn't see. She expected things would be business as usual in the morning.

That night, Pansy burst into the fourth-year dormitory, gloating to anyone who would listen—and everyone who wouldn't—about how she was Draco's date to the Yule Ball, how he was paying for her to send away for a new dress, how _wonderful_ he was, and how _sorry_ she felt for anyone foolish enough to turn him down. Verity tugged the green silk hangings around her bed and blocked out Pansy's gushing.

* * *

_(Chapter 23: The Yule Ball)_

"MacLaren, the ball's started." Verity whirled around to see Daphne Greengrass, stunning in a sparkling navy dress, her hair cascading down her back in dark curls.

"I'm not going."

"Not looking like that, you aren't," Daphne said with a disgusted glance over her roommate. Verity's blue-grey dress, with its stained sleeves and high lace collar, looked even shabbier compared to Daphne's gown than it had in the mirror. "That style was popular...last century?"

Verity muttered about second-hand, all she could afford, no options, didn't care anyway, as Daphne circled her appraisingly. Verity felt her sharp eyes catch every flaw, and she blushed.

"This is _disgusting_." Daphne lifted the edge of Verity's skirt with her wand and picked at the moldering grey lace on the hem. She whispered an incantation. Verity cried out in surprise as the lace fell in a heap on the ground and her skirt hemmed itself neatly.

" _How_ much did it cost you? Or did you find it in a rubbish pile?" Daphne traced her wand around the hem of Verity's left sleeve, and that lace fell too. Verity stood in confused silence while Daphne removed the lace from her other sleeve.

Finally, she had to ask. "Why are you helping me?"

Daphne didn't answer right away. Her attention had moved to the snagged lace collar that filled the neckline of Verity's dress and hugged her pale throat. With a disgusted sneer, she said, "We're hosting two prestigious academies attended by dignified people. You'd have them believe British wizards are impoverished and awkward. Besides," she went on, softer, "there may be extra boys tonight. Anything could happen."

She touched her wand to the edge of Verity's neckline. "Turn," she commanded, and she traced her wand all the way around, then cut the lace off. With a wave of her wand, stains and dust were siphoned off the dress and into the tip of her wand. "Well?"

Verity turned to the mirror, and she breathed "Oh!" Her dress no longer looked like a nineteenth-century nightgown. It no longer looked like any sort of nightgown, as a matter of fact. It was beautiful. The pale blue-grey shimmered in the candlelight as she revolved.

"Thanks, Daphne," she murmured, running her hands over her skirt.

"Don't steal any Durmstrang boys until I've had my pick," the other girl said, "and brush your hair before you go downstairs. You must have slept on it." There, Verity thought as Daphne swept out of the dormitory, there was the Daphne Greengrass she knew.


	4. The Beginning of It All

_(Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ — _Chapter 23: The Yule Ball)_

Verity sat alone in the Great Hall, watching the couples dance. All was back to normal. Her dress wasn't the embarrassment she'd expected, but no one gave her a second glance anyway. She waited for midnight.

Pansy hung on Draco's every word and giggled like a fool. He deserved a girl like her, a stupid, self-centered, bullying…a female version of himself. After all, he liked himself best. What did they talk about between their two empty brains?

Despite these thoughts, she couldn't help but enjoy herself a little. The Great Hall was unrecognizable. The frost on the walls shimmered in the light from the starry ceiling, and holly and mistletoe hung everywhere. It was pleasant to see her usually black-robed classmates so colorfully attired. She soon forgot her troubles in the swirling dance floor.

After a few minutes, she caught herself watching one couple with particular interest, or at least the boy: one of those idiotic Weasley twins who'd tried to use the Aging Potion. His dress robes, she noted critically, were too short, but that didn't bother him. He grinned as if he couldn't have more fun anywhere else, although, as Verity reflected on other times she'd seen him, his face knew that expression well.

He and his partner (a dark, attractive girl who might play Quidditch) laughed and danced so wildly that nearby couples glared at them, but they either didn't see or didn't care. She couldn't look away. After a few minutes, he caught her staring and winked. Her face burned. Still, she kept glancing back.

When she bored of the dancers, she tugged a parchment and pencil from her pocket. After a few minutes' sketching, the picture emerged, and Verity started at what, or rather who it was.

"Hello then, miss." Crumpling the page in her fist, she glanced up to see that Weasley boy standing over her.

"Hi," she breathed, blushing furiously red. _Oh Merlin, a boy is talking to me._

"What's that you're drawing?" He dropped into the seat next to her.

"Oh." She gave a little laugh. "Nothing." She willed him to go away without more awkward questions. _Oh Merlin, it's a handsome boy. Why is he talking to me?_ Unfortunately, he was intrigued.

"Can I see?" he asked, unaware of the torment he caused her. She handed over the parchment, wishing her fingers were all broken and she couldn't hold a pencil. The half-finished sketch showed him dancing with a girl nothing like his real partner, though it looked suspiciously like Verity. She had captured his cocky grin and untidy hair, and though he'd never seen it, her shy smile was perfect.

When she looked up, dreading his disgust, Verity found he wasn't mad a strange girl had been drawing pictures of him. "That's great," he said, smiling warmly. "Really. I wish I could draw."

"Thanks."

"Hey, Angelina is off with George—she forgot we're two people again—but—do you dance?"

"A little."

"Would you want to?"

"Sure." Taking his hand, Verity allowed herself to be pulled onto the dance floor, and she smiled for the first time that night. "I'm Verity. You're a Weasley, but..."

"How'd you tell?" he asked with a grin, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm Fred. Not to be confused with George, though that's easy to do. Our own mother mixes us up, helped along by the fact we like to switch clothes at home." Verity laughed shyly. "What House are you in? You're not Gryffindor."

The smile faded from her face. "Slytherin," she said, waiting again for the disgust.

"And you're not too high-and-mighty to associate with a dirt-poor blood traitor like me?" Fred's laugh put her at ease. "Either there are good Slytherins, or that slimy Malfoy hasn't got around to brainwashing you. Either way, it's a pleasant surprise."

"He couldn't brainwash me," Verity warmed up to full sentences. "I've known him too long—ugh, disgusting—" she broke off with a shudder that made Fred laugh harder. The music swelled, and he spun her around until she was giddy, laughing and gasping for breath at the same time.

They spent the rest of that dance and the next one sharing stories about Draco and laughing together. When their insults were exhausted, Fred asked her about her family, and she explained her situation in Malfoy Manor. "So you'd be perfectly placed to spy on them, eh?"

"I guess," Verity shrugged. "Mr. Malfoy doesn't share secrets with the kitchen girl, but I keep my eyes open. The things hidden in that old house..."

Draco and Pansy swaggered by. "Look at you," Draco said. "You found someone of your own station now." He sneered. "I'm not sure which of you is lower. The boy who lives in a barn, or the girl who lives off my charity. Be careful, MacLaren. He's only interested because he wants to work for me too. It'd be the highest achievement of his miserable life." He swept away, and it was all Verity could do to stop Fred jumping him.

"With the teachers trying to impress the other schools? Professor McGonagall will hang you from the chandelier!"

"I don't care," Fred growled, pulling faces at Draco's back. "How _do_ you take that so calmly?"

"Practice," she said as she tugged him toward the drinks. "I've learned that failing to get me in trouble makes Draco madder than any insult." Fred calmed, though he still shot murderous glares at Draco every time he came near.

"So," he asked after one such moment, "Malfoy said _now_ you found someone of your own station in life. Were you with a rich guy before?"

"He asked me to the ball," she confessed. "I told him no, so he's sore."

"No kidding!" he snorted. "No wonder he was mad. How'd he ask? It's too much to expect civility out of a Malfoy." Verity reenacted her and Draco's conversation, and Fred shuddered in all the right places. "Creepy thing, isn't he?"

The clock struck midnight and the dancers filtered out of the Great Hall. Verity was alone again, but she didn't mind this time. She wove through the crowd, humming one of the songs she and Fred had danced to.


	5. Lunch

_(Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ —C _hapter 27_ : _Padfoot Returns)_

Verity sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, alone. Her classmates were gossiping about the third Triwizard task, what it might be, how it could top the second, but she concentrated on finishing breakfast and getting outdoors. The enchanted ceiling was perfectly, cloudlessly blue, and sun shone through the windows; glorious weather for a Sunday in March. She looked forward to a lazy day far from Draco and Pansy. She'd hide if the need arose, but she would have her day.

The post owls flew into the Great Hall in a flurry of wings and feathers, dropping letters and parcels. Caesar, Draco's gorgeous eagle owl, glided to the other end of the table and deposited a large box in his owner's lap. Mrs. Malfoy's weekly adoration had arrived in the form of candy and cake. Verity hadn't received an owl in four years at Hogwarts.

To her utter surprise, then, a white envelope fell onto her bacon. A tiny owl buzzed around her head, hooting in a self-satisfied sort of way. She smiled, and the owl decided he had done his job and zoomed away. The letter wasn't addressed, except with Verity's name scrawled across the front in letters that listed to one side. She tore it open.

_Hello then, Verity,_ it said, _I wonder if you'd like to do lunch sometime. Today? Meet me by that statue of the centaur near the Quidditch pitch. I would suggest somewhere closer, but I suspect Malfoy wouldn't like you associating with a dirt-poor blood traitor like me_ —Verity's heart decided to stop beating for a while— _and I know my brothers won't love me spending time with a Slytherin who works for Malfoy. But I don't care, do you? See you at lunch (hopefully). Fred Weasley_

Verity's heart began working again. Now she thought about it, enjoying a sunny Saturday was much easier _with_ someone, especially someone who could make her laugh. She noticed a PS at the bottom. _If that bloody bird of Ron's has already left, look over to the Gryffindor table and give us a nod._ She craned her neck, scanning the far table for red hair. She had several false alarms—how many Weasleys were there?—before she found a twin. He gave her a questioning look. She replied with a small nod, and he grinned.

When Verity got to the centaur statue, no one had arrived, so she leaned against its pedestal and waited. The spring sun shone, and the few clouds were wispy and white. A cool breeze ruffled the trees nearby. She wouldn't mind a short nap.

"Hey, Verity." She shook her head to get rid of the cobwebs. Fred and his twin brother leaned against the other side of the statue. "Glad you could make it. I'd like you to meet my brother George," he said, and the other twin smiled and shook her hand. "George, the lady I met at the Yule Ball when you borrowed my partner."

George shrugged. "Guilty as charged. Though it seems to have worked out, eh?"

Fred didn't reply. "We brought lunch," he told Verity, tugging a rolled-up napkin out of his pocket. He undid it and revealed a pair of chicken sandwiches. His other pocket held another napkin and more sandwiches, and he produced a flask of pumpkin juice from inside his robes. George's pockets also contained squashed sandwiches wrapped in napkins.

Verity sat on the grass, then leapt up again with a squeal. "Oh, it's wet!"

Fred sat with a thump and went the other direction just as quickly. "Yes it is." He grimaced.

"Good thing we know another place," George said. He and Fred led the way toward the Quidditch pitch, Verity trailing after. Their feet sank into the wet grass as they walked, and their shoes were soon soaked through.

"This is technically off limits unless we have a game," George said as they climbed the stairs into the stands.

"Or a practice," Fred added, turning down a row of seats, "but since when have _we_ ever bothered with off limits?" Verity smiled. She wasn't sure what to make of them. They seemed a little crazy, but they were nice enough. And they talked to her, not giving orders or insulting, just talking, which, she thought, was worth a little crazy.

"Why did you ask me to dance?" she asked after a while. The Yule Ball had been on her mind.

"Because you're pretty," George smirked.

"Sure," said Fred without a trace of embarrassment. "And you kept watching me and drawing, so I wanted to see if you were drawing me. Besides, you looked lonely. So I decided I might as well say hello."

"I'm glad you did," she said. "Pass the sandwiches, please."

Verity thoroughly enjoyed herself. The twins liked to talk and she preferred not to, so they were a good match. She leaned back in the stands, eating all the roast beef sandwiches and listening to stories of everything from Fred and George's many escapades to things they'd heard about the Ministry of Magic to accounts of Quidditch games. By the time the last sandwich disappeared, Verity suspected she'd made her first two friends.

"Ought to get back, eh?" George said as the bell rang across the grounds.

They cleaned up. "Same time tomorrow?" Fred asked.

"I don't know." Verity folded a napkin and put it in her pocket. "Draco will notice if I'm gone too often."

"Yeah, George and I are usually in the thick of things; it'd be odd if we were gone twice in a row," he conceded

"It'll look suspicious if you owl me again."

"It'll look suspicious if we're seen talking to each other."

They stood for a moment. George broke the silence. "We'll think of something. Come on, Fred, we've got places to be."

"Blimey, I clean forgot. I'm sorry, Verity, we have business transactions to make. We promised our client we'd meet him after lunch—owing to the fact our lunch break was full." He grinned.

"I understand," she said. "Bye Fred, George. Thank you for lunch." They climbed out of the stands and headed off across the grounds.

Verity hardly saw the twins the rest of the day. On the occasion they passed in the halls, they acted as though she wasn't there. Taking her cues from them, she pretended as well she'd never given them the time of day. Still, she'd never had such a hard time keeping a smile off her face, and that afternoon, when Professor Snape gave her top marks for her antidote in front of the whole class, she couldn't resist a little cheer. She didn't know so much goodness could fit in one day.

The next morning, she dressed with unusual rapidity, threw her books into her bag, and rushed to the stairs. There she paused, fighting with instinct. Instinct won. She sat on the bottom step, opened her bag again, and reorganized her books. Satisfied, she continued out to the Great Hall for breakfast.

She sneaked a glance at the Gryffindor table as she passed through the tall doors. It gave her a pleasant chill to see the twins. She sat, beaming at the world, and pulled a plate of toast toward herself.

"What's with you?" Pansy asked, grabbing a flask of pumpkin juice.

"Nothing." Verity tried to smother a grin and only succeeded in dropping the butter knife. She ducked to get it.

Under the table, a folded piece of parchment scooted across the floor. She curiously watched it make its way toward her, hit the edge of her shoe, and slide up her leg. It continued under her skirt a few inches before it reappeared, as if it realized it was going the wrong way, and tapped the hem of her stocking insistently. Bewildered but amused, she took the parchment and opened it.

_Hello then, miss. First things first, if you're reading this, this is not easy. I have to move it all the way across the floor without anybody stepping on it, then I have to drop something and get under the table, because I don't want to stick it down Crabbe's sock. But if you are reading this, I guess it worked. So, if you can get away from Malfoy, say we meet for lunch next Wednesday? Same place._

She made a mental note: tell Fred to aim for her lap next time.


	6. Keeping Secrets

_(Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ — _Chapter 17: The Lion and the Serpent)_

"Come _on_ , Verity." Fred grabbed her hand and tried to pull her toward the door.

"You can't get cold feet now." George took hold of her other hand.

"You promised," they said together.

"Fred!" Verity dug her feet into the ground. "George! I can't!" She was petrified by what might happen if Umbridge caught her in the midst of a secret Harry Potter rebel meeting. Equally concerning: asking her erstwhile enemies to trust her. "No one wants me. I carry Malfoy's books, for Merlin's sake! They'll think I'm a spy."

"Not the way you're complaining, they won't," Fred grumbled.

"You do want to go, don't you?" George asked.

"Of course. I'm just worried."

"It'll work out, I swear," Fred said. "If anyone gives you a hard time, I'll hex them."

"Now come on, or we'll be late," said George. Verity gave in, and they made their way to the seventh floor, meeting Lee Jordan on the way. They had to take a longer route when they almost ran into Draco near the Charms classroom, but the journey ended with no major troubles.

"It's only the second meeting anyways, we're all new; it's not like it's a long-standing group you're trying to get in on," George said as he pushed open the Room of Requirement door. "They might not even notice you..."

Everyone greeted Lee and the twins enthusiastically, but they fell silent at the sight of Verity, half-hidden behind Fred's shoulder. A quiet rumble of whispering came next, and she caught the word on everyone's lips. Slytherin. So much for not being noticed. She blushed vividly and tried to back out the door, but Fred pulled her out from behind him. "Harry, we brought a friend," he called across the room.

"That's great," Harry called back, setting a thick, leather-bound book on a nearby shelf. Verity smiled shyly as he walked over. "Sorry," he said, "I'm forgetting your name." In his favor, he only glanced at her Slytherin robes for a moment.

"Verity."

"Welcome to Dumbledore's Army, Verity," he said pleasantly. He shot a questioning glance at the twins.

"She's safe," said Fred. "We do background checks on all new friends wearing green." Verity giggled.

"We took her out to lunch," George clarified.

"And you might want to ask," Fred added, "how we've been able to cause so much mayhem for the Slytherins without a foot in their common room." He pointed to her, and she could tell Harry was impressed.

"Alright then, excellent," Harry said with a laugh, and he shook Verity's hand. "Welcome aboard."

Although she seemed to have Harry's trust, or at least the right to be on probation, she discovered the others were much harder to win. Fred and George's brother Ron kept eyeing her suspiciously, as though waiting for her to make a signal at which Malfoy and his cronies would burst in and arrest them all. The others were hardly better, and she knew the Ravenclaw boys were whispering behind her back.

When they partnered to work on Disarming, Verity (trying not to broadcast her relationship with the twins) floated about until Luna Lovegood offered, in her dreamy, unfocused way, to work with her. Grateful that someone, even Loony Lovegood, gave her a shot, she didn't complain about Luna's erratic spell-work, though she had to put out several books she set on fire.

By the time nine o'clock came around, Verity had Disarmed Luna multiple times, and though she wondered if Luna hadn't been paying attention the whole time, it was still an immense achievement. She could hardly wait for the next meeting.

_(Chapter 24: Occlumency)_

Surprisingly, Draco never noticed Verity leaving the common room at least one evening a week to keep attending D.A. meetings.

She improved every week in new jinxes and countercurses, but when they began Shield Charms, she hit a wall. The best she could ever do was shoot a thin stream of translucent fog out of her wand that protected against passing flies. The worst part was, she didn't have a place to practice. Her dormitory and common room were out of the question, and it would be tricky to explain, were she found anywhere else, where she learned the spell in the first place. It plagued her; not even further success in other spells brightened her mood.

The first meeting after Christmas, Fred noticed. He held her back after the rest of the D.A. left. "Something's bothering you," he said. "What's the matter? Don't you say nothing."

Verity remained silent a minute. "I still can't do the Shield Charm," she said bitterly. "Everyone else can do it. _Longbottom_ is the best at it." Her unspoken question hung in the air: What's wrong with me?

Fred dropped onto the pile of Stunning practice cushions. "You are being melodramatic. I don't know why you have trouble with that one spell, but besides that you're a genius." Verity looked down, pink. "Snape took you for private lessons. You want to know how often he does that? I have no idea, because I don't pay attention, but I'd guess not often. So what if you can't do a Shield Charm? If you can make Polyjuice Potion and look like a Death Eater, they won't curse you in the first place and you'll be better off than the rest of us."

She giggled. "If I'm pretending to be a Death Eater, I'll have to hex you to make my act realistic." She pulled her wand out.

"You won't be able to do that," Fred said, grinning wickedly.

"And why not?"

"Because _I_ can do a Shield Charm."

"Why, you—" Verity leapt forward, a hex on her lips, but she tripped on a cushion and collapsed face-first on top of Fred. They burst out laughing.

Ron walked in.

They froze. Ron's face flushed. Verity stumbled to her feet. "I—I'll see you next week," she said breathlessly, and she hurried out of the room without a backward glance.

She had half shut the door when Ron said, "The bloody hell was that?" She paused.

"What are you doing here?" Fred countered.

"When even George doesn't know where you've got to, something's fishy," Ron said. "What was that?"

"Little brother, that might not be your business."

"It might if you're messing around with _her_."

"She's my friend. We were talking," Fred said.

Verity could basically hear Ron rolling his eyes. "If I weren't a little pissed off, I'd be disgusted I walked in on that. You know who she is, don't you?"

"Total stranger," Fred said.

"She walks with Malfoy every day. She rides the train with him, she sits by him in class. You don't find that the least bit suspicious? She lives with our biggest enemy and _all of a sudden_ wants to join the D.A. and spend time with you? Come on!"

"What are you saying?"

"Your new girlfriend—"

"She's not my girlfriend."

"I'll say she's not! She's Malfoy's! She's using you! Fred, she's pretty and plays shy, so you roll over because you're too thick to realize..."

Verity didn't want to hear any more. She ran, her face hot, and she didn't stop until she'd thrown herself onto her bed. She pulled the hangings around herself and lay there, sick to her stomach. She didn't fall asleep until dawn.

When she dragged herself upstairs for breakfast, it was nine, but the Great Hall was still crowded. The twins were at the Gryffindor table, but she didn't glance over and made sure to sit far from Draco. Something hit her in the back of the head. A crumpled ball of paper floated at eye level. She grabbed it and flattened it on the table.

_Sorry about Ron,_ it said. _He didn't mean all that, but I told him he's a nasty git and doesn't know anything. Still, let's make sure there aren't any cushions next time we're talking, eh? Or better yet, let's make sure there are cushions, but no Rons. Oh, and could you give me a hand? I'd like a few Skiving Snackboxes to find their way into Crabbe and Goyle's hands, but not the half that will stop them puking. Just the half that will start them off. I'll give them to you at lunch. Love Fred_

Verity glanced over at the Gryffindor table and caught Fred's eye. He grinned sheepishly, and she returned the smile.

_(Chapter 27: The Centaur and the Sneak)_

"We should keep working on Patronuses today." Easter holidays were almost upon them. Verity and the twins had become distant in public, though in reality they were closer than ever. Ron tolerated her now she stayed away from his brother, but he was never friendly. "Okay, well, you know the incantation, you know you need a really happy memory, I guess we should all try it," Harry said. "Remember, _expecto patronum_."

Verity reached for a good memory, landing on the day her Hogwarts letter came. Concentrating on the giddiness when she saw the coat of arms on the envelope, she shouted, along with twenty other voices, " _Expecto patronum!_ " A jet of silver mist shot from her wand. She gasped. Many had managed the mist like hers, stronger and weaker, and some people even achieved animal Patronuses. Luna Lovegood's was a hare, which made all kinds of sense.

Harry walked around the room, viewing their results with pride. "What we need is a boggart or something," he said, "that's how I learned, I had to conjure a Patronus while the boggart pretended to be a dementor..."

Verity thought she'd rather hold off on actual monsters until she had an actual Patronus. The next few times she tried, she saw shapes in the mist, but they evaporated. Fred and George laughed triumphantly from the other side of the room as thick jets of mist erupted from their wands.

The door swung open, and a house-elf rushed into the room. Harry hurried over to him. Verity did a double take. Was that Dobby? She'd hoped he was okay; he'd been awfully nice to her whenever their paths crossed at the manor. What on earth was he wearing?

Harry's tone grew more and more worried. Finally he said, "Is she coming?"

"Yes, Harry Potter, yes!" the elf cried.

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" Harry bellowed, standing. "RUN!"

Since Verity was nearest the door, she wasn't caught in the mob, and she made it halfway down the corridor before Fred fought his way through. His voice brought her to a halt.

"You'll never get back to your dormitories in time. You'll be caught."

"So you slow me down?" she whispered.

"No, listen," he said urgently. "Catch me. Take me to Umbridge. If anyone asks, you _were_ a spy."

"Are you sure?"

"I won't let you get me all the way to her," he whispered back. "Just far enough Malfoy sees you doing your duty."

"Make it look good," said Verity. Fred broke into a full-tilt run. She gave him a second's head start before bolting after him. "Get back here, Weasley!" She he kept after him despite the stitch in her side, down the corridor and up the stairs.

" _Petrificus totalus!_ " she cried. She'd aimed over his head, but she accidentally hit him, and he toppled over, frozen. "Bother!" she whispered. She grabbed him under the arms and dragged him toward Umbridge's office, hoping someone would interfere.

"Oi! Let go of him!" Ron's voice echoed up the stairs with his pounding footsteps. Verity rephrased her frantic wish. She hoped someone would interfere—besides Ron. "You sneak!" He ran at her. Verity tripped. Her hands hit the stone step. Ron stood over her, breathing heavily, wand out. "What, you tipped off Umbridge and thought you'd help more? You're sick."

"This isn't what it looks like," Verity said, panicked. "But if Umbridge finds you and Fred..."

Ron grumbled and stepped away from her. "You stay away from us!" he called after her as she leapt to her feet and rushed down the stairs.

In the entrance hall she ran into Pansy Parkinson. "Why are you out here, MacLaren?" she said.

"I—nothing," she panted, but Pansy caught her shoulder and stopped her.

"Did you hear about that meeting of Potter's?" she asked.

"I was up there. I almost caught one of those Weasleys, but his brother stopped me. I put the Body-Bind Curse on him, though. You're better at dueling than I am." Flattery helped. "If you hurry you can catch them. Professor Umbridge would reward you for it," she said suavely. "Imagine if Slytherin got the House Cup back because of points _you_ earned."

Pansy decided her wish to be rewarded by Umbridge surpassed her wish to interrogate her classmate. She rushed away while Verity continued back to the dormitories, hoping none of the other Army members would be caught.

At the door of her dormitory, she stopped dead. There couldn't be any more meetings. The thought depressed her. They had been so good for her. She'd learned more in those lessons than she had in all her Defense Against the Dark Arts classes this year. Non-retaliation, honestly! She could have written that chapter herself, though she'd noticed a remarkable lack of information on how to keep out of trouble during scoldings. Maybe, she thought, she'd write to Mr. Slinkhard and offer to add a section for the revised edition.


	7. The Left-Behind

_(Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ — _Chapter 29: Career Advice)_

"How'd you find that last Transfiguration lesson?" Fred asked Verity as he and George passed her on their way out from breakfast. He kept his tone light and conversational; Gryffindors and Slytherins filled the entrance hall.

"Interesting," she replied, equally noncommittal.

"I hear something's up at break," George said to Fred. "It sounded important." Without a backward glance, the twins walked away. Verity stifled a laugh. She loved having a code.

At break, as per the twins' message, she slipped away from the others and headed to the deserted Transfiguration corridor. They waited for her behind a statue of Griselda the Greedy, a witch clutching a bag of Galleons with a nasty expression. "Hello, boys," Verity said with a smile, slipping behind the statue with them.

"Hey." They didn't return the smile, and Verity's brow furrowed.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asked.

"Here's the deal," Fred began. "We've got a little bit of mischief planned this afternoon...well, it's actually a big bit of mischief, and we want you to stay away from the east wing after lessons."

"Why?" she asked. "If you're causing trouble, I want to watch."

"You can't," George said.

"We don't want you in trouble," said Fred.

"We don't even want you knowing what it is."

"So if Umbridge pokes her nose about, you'll have an alibi." Fred looked her in the eyes. She noted how strange it was to see him serious. "Promise you'll stay away. No matter what you hear."

"But—"

Fred put his hands on her shoulders. "You're good. I don't want you dragged into this. Promise." He saw her getting ready to protest again. "Promise. "

She hated to lie to him. "I promise."

Fred took her hand in his for a moment. "It's been great, Verity."

"We'll write," George said.

What? Verity's brain overloaded. Write? Were they saying goodbye? Were they leaving? They ran away before she could stop them or ask any of her million questions.

True to her word (though against her will) Verity went to her dormitory after lessons. Restless, she paced, straining for any sound of what she knew was happening in the east wing. Once she imagined she heard shouts far above, but no sound penetrated the dungeons so deep. Disappointed, she returned to pacing.

Pansy burst into the dormitory. The front of her robes was spattered with a foul-smelling, sticky green substance. "Those filthy Weasleys!" she spat.

"What'd they do?" Verity leapt from her bed. She accidentally betrayed her very strong interest, but Pansy was too busy examining her clothes to notice.

"Turned Gregory the Smarmy's corridor into a bloody _swamp_ , that's all!" she said, scraping the slime off her front.

Verity's jaw dropped. "Did they get in trouble?" she asked, quickly making it sound more sadistic than worried.

Pansy made a noise of annoyance. "We had them cornered, but they Summoned their brooms and flew out the door." She stamped her foot. " _Filthy_ blood traitors! They were about to get the flogging they've had coming for years. Ugh!" She stripped off her robe and flopped into bed, leaving Verity's brain spinning again.

Being kept safe felt suspiciously like being abandoned.

_(Chapter 30: Grawp)_

The first week after the twins escaped was miserable. Verity had grown so used to real friends that she struggled to readjust to living alone. However, one Saturday at breakfast a week later, a strange owl dropped a letter onto her plate. She slipped it into her pocket and crept away from the table.

Verity hid behind the centaur statue where she and the twins first met for lunch over a year ago. She tore open the unmarked envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper. Fred's crooked handwriting greeted her.

_Hello then, miss. I had a thing to tell you, but a dragon, a flower, and a largish pink toad are lurking near you, and I didn't want to chance it. So, you can see it the same way as the map. Love from a redhead._

This took her a moment. Had he been in the firewhisky? (Not unlikely.) Then she remembered the argument she'd had with Draco their first year. He'd sworn up and down his name was in the Hogwarts school motto. She maintained the school had been founded long before he was born. A prefect finally explained "draco" meant dragon in Latin. It didn't answer the question either way, but it shut them up, which was probably why the prefect told them in the first place.

A dragon, Draco; a flower, Pansy; a largish pink toad...with a laugh, she realized Fred meant Umbridge. ... _you can see it the same way as the map_. Hadn't the twins told her about the enchanted map they found and how to work it? She tapped the letter with her wand and whispered, "I swear—no, I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The short message faded, and a new, longer letter appeared in its place. Glancing around to ensure her solitude, she settled down to read his letter.

_Hello then, Verity. Wasn't that clever? George is terribly good with this code sort of thing. He's come up with a plan so we can smuggle our products into Hogwarts without that crazy old bat any the wiser. Business is booming; everyone in London needs a good joke. You've got to come visit over the holidays._

_Anyway, how's life at the castle? You can be as rude as you like if you write on this paper. You can erase our letter and write your own. Then clear it and you can write on the blank bit the message Umbridge will see. She can search all she wants and she'll never figure it out._

_Now George and I are living the bachelor life, we appreciate good cooking. And clean laundry. We haven't had much of either since we left. Mum said in no uncertain terms she wouldn't support us once we moved out. "Bill and Charlie managed alright, you don't see me sending laundry to Egypt and Romania every week, so why can't you make it..." you know the drill. Could you owl me something decent to eat? I'm starving half to death. George burns everything and everything I make comes out in suspicious colors._

_Since I wrote the last paragraph a few seconds ago, I remembered what I miss even more than food and clean clothes. You. I wish you were here. If Umbridge gives you trouble, send us an owl and we'll bust you out too. Don't let Malfoy get you down (and if he does, think of him as a bouncing white ferret). Tell Peeves hello and to keep fighting the good fight. Love, Fred._

Verity hugged the letter. After the twins escaped, her friendships with the D.A. disappeared. Ron remained convinced that she was a shameless flirt toying with his brother. The rest were skeptical of her as well; the same people who greeted her cordially at meetings now responded with sideways glances. Even Lee grew guarded, a change that pained her. She had hoped he, of all the boys' friends, trusted her. Apparently he'd been putting up with her for their sake.

She sneaked inside. The sooner she replied to Fred's letter, the sooner she got one back. "Dragon's fire," she said to the stone wall, and slipped down the passageway.

Luckily, her dormitory was deserted. Pulling out ink and a quill, she slipped into her desk chair and wrote as fast as she could. She listened intently for the slightest noise. Her words wouldn't be appreciated by her classmates, or Professor Umbridge, for that matter. After a few uneventful minutes, she relaxed. She had just signed the letter when a voice startled her.

"What's this, MacLaren?" asked Pansy Parkinson. She lunged over and snatched the letter off the desk. "Letter to your mum? Oh, I forgot. Owl post doesn't deliver to the afterlife, does it?" She laughed, dangling the letter inches above her classmate's outstretched fingers. Verity thrust her hand in her pocket for her wand, but Pansy moved too quickly. " _Accio!_ " she yelled, and Verity's wand flew through the air into her hand.

"Give me my letter, Parkinson!" Verity cried.

"I want to read it first." With a gasp, Verity realized she hadn't hidden her message. Pansy glanced at the heading. "Fred who?" She continued without an answer. "We should share this!" She ran toward the common room.

"Draco!" Pansy sang out, and a wicked smile spread across his face as he saw her brandishing a letter and two wands, with Verity behind her. Pansy cleared her throat. Verity's stomach lurched. All of Slytherin House was in the common room, and they were all staring.

" _Dear Fred,_ " Pansy read in a high voice. " _Everything's horrid as usual, except worse because you aren't here to make me laugh._ " The crowd sighed. "So romantic. _That old bat has cracked down on us worse than ever. I wish I left with you._ "

"Were you writing to that Weasley?" Draco said, in a voice calculated to the perfect volume to catch everyone's attention. "You've always had poor taste, but a blood traitor who's desperate for attention and lives in a barn? He seems low, even by your standards."

" _You'll be proud to know DADA attendance has plummeted. Umbridge-itis is spreading like wildfire. The new Gryffindor Beaters are pathetic, but your Ginny's good. You'd be proud. Draco still thinks he's so wonderful, but honestly! If I looked like him, I wouldn't swagger and flirt. I'd drown myself and consider it a humanitarian act._ " The others laughed, and Draco fumed.

" _I'm not a hundred percent sure why he's flirting with Pansy, of all people. Either he's stringing her along for the pleasure of seeing her heartbroken, or he is painfully desperate. You've seen her face._ " Pansy threw Verity a venomous glare. " _Oh well, better her than me. He must have learned not to try very high when Granger hit him third year. He sulked horribly for weeks. At any rate, I can't wait for the holidays_ — _and you. Unless that she-devil takes summer away too. If she does, maybe I'll take up your offer. Lots of love from your Verity._ "

Verity swallowed back tears of shame and anger. Most of the Slytherins were dying of laughter (bad enough), but Pansy and Draco were contemplating murder. The only real question was who would hit her with the Cruciatus Curse first.

A sadistic smirk appeared on Draco's face. Verity's heart dropped. "I think," he said, "the High Inquisitor would be interested to hear this letter."

"No," she gasped.

"Oh, yes." His eyes gleamed. "MacLaren, if you'll accompany me." Draco stood, took the letter Pansy handed to him, and grabbed Verity's wrist. He pulled her after him, out of the common room, away from the other Slytherins' stares, and into the corridor.

"Please, Draco. _Please_. Don't." Verity pleaded with him. Far too soon, they arrived at Professor Umbridge's office. Draco knocked smartly before dragging her through the door to face Umbridge.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" she said, smiling at the sight of her favorite pupil with a guilty girl in tow.

"Parkinson caught her writing a letter," Draco said. "You ought to read it, Headmistress. It's…interesting." He handed over the letter. Umbridge's penciled-in eyebrows rose alarmingly.

"Thank you very much, dear." She bestowed a foul grimace on him. "Twenty points to Slytherin for your good work. You may go." Draco bowed obsequiously and left the office.

"So." Umbridge leaned in. "You are corresponding with those disrespectful twins that escaped me last week. How much did you know about their plans?" Verity rubbed her arm. "How are they connected with the students leaving my classes?" She bit her lip. "You-will-answer-me-when-I-talk-to-you," Umbridge rattled off, galled but making an impressive attempt to remain calm. "You said he would be proud to know attendance has dropped. What part are they playing in it?" She twisted a strand of her hair and stared at her shoes.

"Very well," Umbridge said sweetly, but her face was cold and hard. "Sit." She gestured to a chair by a small, lace-doily-covered table. Verity sat. "Sweetheart, you are in detention. Remember, you may leave as soon as you tell me everything you know about those boys. You will write 'I must not speak to blood traitors.'"

A piece of parchment and a sharp black quill sat on the table. Verity couldn't find any ink, so she wrote dry. _I must not_ —she screamed. The words appeared across the back of her hand, shiny red against her pale skin, and pain shot up her arm. The words faded, but her hand still ached.

"Keep writing!" Umbridge said without looking up from her grading. … _speak to blood traitors_. Three more times, and her hand stayed raw once the words faded. A few more times, and the cuts broke skin. She gagged. Blood might be one of the most common potion ingredients, but her own blood made her sick. She wondered how many more times she had to write before it didn't heal. She stared out the window at the twilit sky over the Quidditch pitch and tried to ignore the blood beading from the slits in her hand.

Out of the blue, a Fred and George idea occurred to her. She wasn't sure whether they had been a good influence or not, but she was about to defy authority. If she had to scar something into her hand, it ought to be more truthful.

_I AM A BLOOD TRAITOR._

The old message that just healed over was replaced by her new one. It too healed, but barely, waiting just below her skin to be cut open again.

_I AM A BLOOD TRAITOR._

She bit her lip as the words sliced into her skin, but she kept writing. This was her defiance, however small.

_I AM A BLOOD TRAITOR._

She shut her eyes as if that kept the pain away. Tears streamed from beneath her lashes as blood stained the paper. Minutes passed, hours passed, second by agonizing second of her hand throbbing and stinging and blood trickling down her wrist. Umbridge never looked up.

_I AM A BLOOD TRAITOR._

_I AM A BLOOD TRAITOR._

After hours of silence, she heard Professor Umbridge's voice. "Come here, girl." She stood, carefully pushed in the chair, and walked to the large desk. "Let me see." Verity held her breath and showed Umbridge the back of her hand, which bled freely from the letters slashed across it. Umbridge's face hardened, though she replaced it with her most saccharine manner, her toadlike mouth stretched into a sickly-sweet smile.

" _What_ is this?" she asked. "What did I tell you to write?" Verity returned to her innocent demeanor. "I see you are as stubborn as your friends. Fifty points will be taken from Slytherin, and let that be a lesson to you." Verity gasped. Experience taught her if she didn't look properly horrified, more punishments would be piled on her. "It _is_ a shame; you were such a good girl. You may go."

Verity rushed from the room. If she had any tears left to cry, she would have been sobbing. Half proud and half afraid of her own bravery, she wanted to crawl in bed and stay all week. Halfway to the Slytherin common room, she ran straight into someone. "Sorry," she muttered, and moved to pass him.

"Hold on a minute." Harry Potter. He took her burning hand. It struck her how much gentler he was than Draco. "Try essence of murtlap." He showed her his own hand, where the words _I must not tell lies_ were cut in spidery white lines. "It takes the pain down."


	8. Summer

_(Summer 1996_ — _between Order of the Phoenix and the Half-Blood Prince)_

When they made it back to Malfoy Manor, Draco hissed at Verity, "Upstairs. Now." Lugging both trunks, Caesar's cage, the Nimbus 2001, and all Draco had accumulated over the school year, Verity trudged up the front stairs, trying not to let the trunks scrape the marble. Two flights, down the third floor corridor, left, right; Draco stopped in front of a dark mahogany door. He thrust it open. "I want a word."

She laid Draco's belongings on his four-poster bed, pretending nothing dangerous gleamed in his pale eyes, and as though the slammed door didn't mean trouble. After she'd straightened the green bedspread and straightened it again, she had to face him.

"I'd like to discuss things with you," he said, his arms crossed. "Specifically, that letter."

Verity's heart stopped. "I was spying on them for you."

"You never told me anything."

"They never told _me_ anything."

"That's what I thought." He examined his perfect fingernails. "Let's see if I can strike closer to the truth. He's _so_ handsome you couldn't think straight. He's the one for you. You've _never_ felt this way and you're pretty sure he feels the same." He laughed at her face, mistaking it for abashed rather than confused. "Pathetic, but predictable. Parkinson told me Tracey Davis said the same about me last year. Of course, the next week Davis told me Parkinson said it about me too."

Apparently he didn't know about her and the D.A.

"He's a mistake, I'm warning you," Draco said, bored. "Worst flirt in Gryffindor. And a nasty temper. Remember how Montague disappeared last term? I talked to him in the hospital wing once his memory came back. Not saying much; he's still a dunce, but he did remember those Weasley twins did whatever it was. It appears they pushed him into that Vanishing Cabinet on the first floor." Draco yawned. "We could keep chatting about your true love's behavior issues, but surprisingly, I do have better things to do. I'll make it quick. You're spending the summer in the attic, and if you lift your wand, I'll have you hauled in front of the Ministry. Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, you know?"

Without another word, Draco took Verity by the arm and led her to the attic. "Remember, one little spell and I'll get you expelled before you know what's happened," he said. "Mother and I will be out all night, so don't cry wolf. We won't come. Good night, _Miss_ MacLaren." He slammed the door and locked it.

Verity stared dejectedly at the door, formulating escape plans that would never work. _How_ many days were left before the school year started? The next few hours she wandered the attic in circles. Hopelessly, mindlessly, she shambled from her bed to the door to the tiny, barred window and back again.

Finally, she froze at the window, watching a grey speck in the blinding clouds. The speck grew and sprouted tiny wings. As it neared, it grew increasingly owlish. Without realizing, she was begging the owl to come to her even if it brought an advertisement.

With a _flup_ of wings, the barn owl—for it was an owl, not a speck—landed on her windowsill and attempted to stuff a large letter through the bars. Shaken out of her apathy, Verity leapt to the window and took the letter from the owl's beak. It hooted officially and took off, and she watched it until it was again nothing more than a grey speck against the clouds. Hungrily, she tore open the envelope and extracted the letter. A dusting of silver powder clung to the paper; a good inch of the same powder filled the bottom of the envelope.

_Dear Verity_ , the letter began in a handwriting she didn't recognize, _I ought to apologize, first off, for not being Fred. He was a stupid sod and broke his hand. We'd rather avoid St. Mungo's as they'd ask how he got this injury (and that's a delicate matter). So his hand is in a cast and he's dictating. He didn't dictate the stupid sod part, but we all know that's true. At any rate, this letter is a collaboration between George and Fred._

_Fred would like me to cordially request your presence at our flat as soon as you're near a fireplace. Anyway, whenever you can get away from those (his choice word has been censored for the intended recipient) known as the Malfoys, please use the Floo powder we stuffed in the envelope to come visit._

_Fred also says those (again censored) probably never let you use Floo powder, so he told me to explain in case. Throw the powder into the fire and it'll turn green, you say Diagon Alley and step in. Keep your elbows in till you stop spinning, and that ought to let you out in the Leaky Cauldron, and find the building that looks like us. See you soon. Sincerely, George (and Love, Fred)._

Verity put the letter down. This should thrill her; hadn't she been waiting for them to rescue her since they had escaped themselves? For some reason, she was just empty, and hurt too. Something rubbed her the wrong way, and she couldn't understand what. She read it again. The letter itself was inoffensive, and Draco, what did he say that had to do with it?

... _it appears they pushed him into the Vanishing Cabinet on the first floor..._ Montague. She crumpled the letter in her hands. There it was. She'd long since grown used to their pranks, but this had gone too far. Slytherin House had been ready to hold a funeral, and the twins would have caused it!

She turned back to the door. Yes, she would visit them. Someone had to talk sense to them. Her kingdom for a fireplace! Her eyes landed on the door. Mrs. Malfoy and Draco were out. She could force it, or...

It vexed her, using a trick they taught her when she was supposed to be mad at them, but needs must. She tugged a pin from her hair and stuck it in the lock. Three minutes of twisting and turning, and she finally heard a click. With grim satisfaction, she thrust the door open and stalked downstairs, envelope in hand.

"Diagon Alley!" Verity said to the emerald-green flames in the dining-room fireplace. With a deep breath, she stepped into the fire. She yelled as it whisked her into the darkness, but she got a mouthful of soot and spent the rest of the ride coughing her lungs out.

By the time she fell out of the Leaky Cauldron fire, the ordeal had almost made her forget why she was upset. Almost, but not quite. She blew past the bar, ignoring Tom's greeting, and whisked into the July heat.

She marched most of the way down the street before realizing she didn't know the boys' address, but it didn't matter. She'd have to be blind and deaf to miss it. Their window exploded against the other storefronts, orange and purple, stuffed with things that bounced, popped, flashed, spun, and declared at the top of their lungs that Fred and George put them there.

The door flew open. "Fred? George?" Verity shouted. She wove between crates, stands, and shelves.

"Upstairs!" Following the voice, she came to stairs in the back of the store, and at the top, the twins' flat. It too looked like them, in a different way from the storefront. It was a bit of a mess (well, more than a bit), and a smell of gunpowder and burnt bread lingered.

Fred swung out of the kitchen, grinning. "You made it!" he said. Verity noticed heavy bandages on one of his hands. His grin faltered, but he recovered fast. "Come on in."

"Is that Verity?" George called from around the corner.

"'Tis indeed," Fred said. "Except...see for yourself." The living room was a bright, comfortable apartment, well-used and well-loved. George stood by the fireplace, rearranging the family photos on the mantel. The photo of Percy grimaced, trying to wipe off the mustache and horns that had been added in ink. The charming title "World's Biggest Prat" also adorned the top of the photograph.

After inspecting her, George said, "You're right, Fred old chap. Verity doesn't look like this unless Malfoy is lurking about. You remembered to shut the door, didn't you? We don't want scum like that in our house."

"Oh, shut up," she said.

"Scuse me?" George coughed, surprised.

"I'm glad you wrote me," she said. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a while." Half an hour was a stretch for "a while," but she wanted it to be obvious how serious she was.

"This isn't about Filch and the Everlasting Ink, is it?" Fred said. "Because it was that lousy Zabini's fault—"

"Not even close."

"Then what?" he asked.

"It's nothing important, Freddie darling. I just want to see if you remember a name. _Montague_." She waited a moment. "Sound familiar? Or has it—vanished?" George tried to sneak toward the door. Verity pointed her wand at him. "Stay where you are, George Weasley. I'm talking to you, too." He dropped back into his favorite chair by the fire, scratching at the scorch mark on the blue plaid upholstery guiltily.

Fred had managed to keep a straight face. "Sure I remember him. Big ugly fellow, Slytherin Quidditch captain, former member of the Inquisitorial Squad."

"And he got pushed into a Vanishing Cabinet last term, didn't he?" Verity said. "You don't know who did that, do you?"

"Could have sworn we told you." Fred smiled as though recalling a particularly pleasant memory. "Shouldn't have tried to take points from Gryffindor. 'Course, Lee helped. He held the door open while George and I shoved the moose in. What, did he turn up?"

"Yes, he turned up." There was murder in her voice. "He turned up in a toilet, with no idea where he was. He had to Apparate to get out, though he's never got his license. He almost died; he spent the rest of the year in the hospital wing."

The twins laughed. "Serves him right," Fred smirked. "Slimy Ministry-loving git. Shame we can't get Percy near a Vanishing Cabinet."

"Fred." Verity's tone suggested he'd better change his mind quick, but he either didn't catch it or ignored it. "Do you care _at all_ if people get hurt in your tricks?"

"I do if they don't deserve what they got," he said.

"Who decides if they deserved it? Is it House? Or how funny the joke was? Or if they're in your way?"

"Hey, now! You know that's not how we work."

"Do I?" Verity snapped. "Do I really? Some days your sense of humor is cruel. It reminds me of Draco." The boys called that shot way below the belt; George leapt to his feet and Fred looked mutinous.

"That's not fair!" he began, but she cut him off.

"Isn't it? I know better than anyone what his humor is like." Her voice shook. "If you do the least thing to bother him, he's horrible and thinks it's hilarious. It doesn't matter how petty, if he gets a laugh, it's fine. I know," she forestalled him, "you're never _that_ mean, you know when you've crossed the line, you only prank people who won't take it the wrong way or bothered you first. I know. Why can't you see you went too far? We thought he would _die_ , you almost _killed_ him to keep ten points for Gryffindor. I wish—I don't know..." She lowered herself back into her seat.

Fred sat as well. "If you're curious who else is like Malfoy, find a mirror."

Verity whirled to face him. "How _dare_ you!"

"Easy," he replied. "You know how many times you've said nasty things about teachers and the rest of your House—and every other person who crosses you? Those insults, I've heard Malfoy say them all. He says it to their faces, but you're too scared, so you grouse at me about how much you hate them, they're so ugly, so stupid. Did you say that to your Slytherins about George and I before we were friends?"

"Fred, you know I'd never—"

"Do I?" he mocked her. "Do I really?"

George leaned back in his chair, pointed his wand toward the kitchen, and Summoned three butterbeers. "So," he said in the tense silence, "am I drinking these myself, or will you give up the staring contest?"

Verity glared at Fred as she addressed his brother. "Unless you've got something stronger, I'll pass."

Fred's brow furrowed. "What, you want a drink?"

Verity struggled to explain. "I want to get mad enough to hurt you, and stupid enough to try Muggle fighting. I want to punch your lights out, and aside from being drunk, that won't happen." She gave up and took his hand. "I'm sorry, Freddie," she whispered. "I was wrong."

Fred put his other hand on top of hers. "Everybody blows up sometimes." They sat in silence for a moment, but there was no hostility in the air. He picked up her hand. "Verity, what in the name of Merlin's pants is this?"

She pulled it away, rubbing the raised white lines . "Umbridge, that is, Pansy caught me writing to you—she gave me detention, and I had to write I must not _speak_ to blood traitors. But I thought I ought to mean it." She offered Fred a half-smile.

He returned it. "I like it. I'll send an owl and thank her. Or maybe a dementor."

"That won't work," Verity murmured. "She's too much like a dementor for it to hurt her." She smiled shyly, glancing sideways at him as she did when she wasn't sure whether she'd been funny. George snickered. Fred burst out laughing, then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Verity started and blushed again, but she was beaming.

"I'm sorry if that was too forward, Miss MacLaren," Fred said, but he too smiled. She shook her head forcefully and leaned over and kissed him back.

With a groan, George left the room.

* * *

"Of course I want to work for you," Verity said a few hours later. "I've hoped since you left that you'd get me out. When can I start?" George snorted into his butterbeer. "What's so funny?" she asked.

"I'm just comparing your view on our offer when you got here to now you've had your share of romance. Seems like a better deal with kissing thrown in, doesn't it?" he smirked. Verity stuck out her tongue at him, and Fred hissed and threw a pillow at his head.

"It has nothing to do with that," she said loftily, though her cheeks were pink. "I had to let out my distress before it erupted. You ought to consider yourself lucky."

"I'm sure I do," Fred said, failing to stop the corners of his mouth twitching.

"But how can this work?" She deflated. "If I disappear...Draco knows I'm friends with you, there are only so many places I could be..."

"Well, we have to do something," George said.

"Because we won't leave you in the attic without even writing," Fred added.

"You can't send me owls, though," said Verity. "No one owls me."

Fred sat and thought, and thought and thought. "What _about_ Floo powder?" he asked. "You couldn't sneak out every day to use the drawing room or whichever you used today, but...there isn't a fireplace near your attic by any chance, is there?"

"No. Nothing."

"Even if there was, do we know it'd be connected to the Floo Network?" asked George.

"No," said Fred. "Maybe if she built one, Dad could get someone to connect it—"

"—if he called in a favor, but they'd have to be willing to go over Malfoy's head—"

"—if they could. We could cut a deal with the blokes on the Knight Bus—"

"—but she'd still have to get out of the house—"

"—and Draco won't ignore a giant purple bus showing up every morning—"

"I don't care!" Verity's words burst from her. "I can't bank on a crackpot plan, I can't stay another day in that house. I'll go mad! I don't care," she repeated. "I will get up at five, at four, I don't care how early and use the dining room fire. I can pick the attic lock, I'm fine. I'm fine," she finished with uncharacteristic firmness.

Fred and George exchanged glances. "Time to go shopping?" Fred said.

"It is," George replied.

"Come along then," they said together to Verity.

An hour and a half later, Fred, George, and Verity returned from their excursion, Verity equipped with a large supply of Floo powder, and the twins with chocolate and mint sundaes that called their names most beseechingly when they passed Florean Fortescue's. Verity had already finished hers.

"So here's the plan," George said as they walked through the front door of the flat.

"You've told me the plan twice," Verity groaned through a stolen bite of Fred's sundae.

"You go home and pretend nothing's up," he continued as though he hadn't heard her.

"And act all depressed because he locked you in that musty old attic," Fred cut in, flicking dust off his dragon-skin jacket.

"But tomorrow morning, you'll come back," George said.

"And begin your tenure as an employee of Weasley and Weasley, Incorporated," said Fred, pride in his voice at the name of his very own company. "Of course, we have to set ground rules." He put on a serious expression. "Rule number one. You may not call me 'Freddie darling' in front of the customers. It will damage my ego."

Verity giggled, and George added, "And you can't address me as 'you, boy.' I know you're used to bossing people around where you come from—"

"—but you must get used to not being in charge for once," Fred finished. Verity accidentally gave an unladylike snort, which made the three of them laugh even harder.

Hiccuping a little, she said, "I'll bear that in mind. " She glanced out the window at the darkened sky over the rooftops. "Oh, bother, I ought to get back." She didn't know what Draco would say if she slid out of the dining room fire in the middle of dinner, but she suspected the largest portion of it would be words she wasn't comfortable repeating, with a few death threats for variety.

She said goodbye to the boys and, taking a pinch of her new Floo powder, stepped to their fireplace. As she threw it into the orange flames, they burned emerald. "Malfoy Manor!" she shouted.

She had one final glimpse of Fred and George and their wonderful flat before a sooty cloud whirled her away, and all was darkness. Occasionally light flashed from other fireplaces, then she stopped spinning and fell from the Malfoys' fireplace.

The warm firelight and wild colors of the boys' flat were replaced with the dismal greys of the manor. She shivered beneath her cardigan; it was also noticeably colder. The Malfoys weren't home, but she didn't have much time, so she headed for the kitchen door and the attic stairs.

As she passed the tall, age-spotted mirror that stretched from floor to high ceiling, she stopped and looked herself over for the first time in a while. Her hair trailed below her elbows, dirtier than ever. She twisted her finger through it, and her nose wrinkled in distaste.

The next morning, she awoke with excitement she never had that early. She sprang from bed, dressed in a matter of seconds, brushed her teeth and hair and washed her face in a minute total, and dove under the bed for her Floo powder less than three minutes after her eyes opened.

"Diagon Alley!" she said jubilantly, and left the manor behind.

"Morning, Freddie! Morning, George!" she called as she pushed open the door to ninety-three, Diagon Alley.

Fred pushed aside the curtain from the back room. "Morning, Verity. We've been—Holy Merlin!" He leapt back. "What did you do?"

She laughed. "Guess."

He walked across the shop until he stood barely a foot from her and circled her. He pointed to her hair. "That's not right."

"I'm glad you're so observant, Freddie," Verity said. "I cut it."

"When?"

"Last night."

"Oh." He paused for a moment and inspected it again. Her hair swung above her shoulders, shining golden in the blocks of light from the front door. "I like it, but what if dear old Draco sees you?"

"Then I just had to pass the time in that attic somehow." She grinned, then noticed a magenta bundle he held behind his back. "What's that?" she asked. He didn't reply. "Is it for me?" she asked again.

"Maybe," he said, holding it above his head so it dangled out of her reach.

"It's for me, isn't it?" She leapt for it, but he was still taller.

"Shame you can't use a Summoning Charm, isn't it, little one?" he teased. Verity didn't respond. Her shoulders slumped, and she sniffled. Fred sighed. "Okay," he relented, and he tossed the bundle at her. Her sadness instantly vanished. "Oh, nice. You Slytherin," he said.

"Thank you, Freddie." Verity blithely ignored him and unfolded the bundle, which turned out to be violently pink robes. "Is this my uniform?" she asked, pulling her arms through the sleeves.

"You bet."

"Are you going to train me?"

"What? Oh, yeah, suppose we ought to do that. Hey George?"

George thundered downstairs. "What's up?"

"What did I say Verity would do besides help mind the store?"

"She'll help us brew potions because God knows we need help with that."

Verity laughed and rolled up her sleeves. That sounded close to a direct quotation. "Show me to a cauldron."


	9. Secrets Revealed

_(Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ — _Chapter 6: Draco's Detour)_

July turned to August. Verity traveled to Diagon Alley early every morning by Floo powder and returned the same way late in the evening. She had never enjoyed a summer more; after they settled the issue of Montague, the only time she and the twins got near a fight was when they threatened to disown her for getting nine O.W.L.s, and even that ended in celebratory drinks at the Leaky Cauldron.

The Malfoys only acknowledged her existence when food appeared in her room once a day, enough in theory to keep her from starving. She Vanished it every night, because she had no intention of eating it, but she didn't want them to suspect she ate in Diagon Alley with those blood traitor Weasleys.

One morning, two weeks before term, she slipped her feet out from under the threadbare quilt that once belonged to MacLaren and winced as a cold draft bit at them. Five minutes, she told herself. She tucked her feet back under the covers.

Twenty minutes later, she reawoke. Dizzy from standing in a hurry, she sat on the floor instead. She pressed the palms of her hands into the ground and let the cold soak up her veins and hit her brain. Chilled enough to think straight, she pulled her trunk from under the old chair and threw back the lid. Her magenta Weasley's Wizard Wheezes robes stood out brilliantly against the faded attic, and the morning sun shone on the last of the shimmering Floo powder. She made a note to buy more before day's end.

She changed quickly. Sleeping in was dangerous. Draco was waking earlier and earlier these days; she wondered if he slept. It would be better to miss work than be caught. Listening for footsteps before the treacherous journey through the old house was agonizing every time. Hearing nothing, she sighed and continued. After so many days of scraping pins, the already low-quality lock had given way, and "locking the door" just kept it closed.

She rushed down staircase after staircase and through the corridors, neatly dodging the rickety steps and creaky floorboards she'd developed a map of in her head. She slipped between the double doors of the dining room, unscrewing the jar lid. A squeak caught her ear as she stood in front of the empty grate. She froze. Draco? The house settling? Whatever the cause, her fingers scrabbled inside the jar as she gathered the last Floo Powder. She threw it into the fireplace so quickly it went everywhere. Calm down. Calm down.

The door swung open. With a crash, the jar slipped from her fingers as she whirled to see Draco in the doorway. His mouth formed words as he tried to grasp the scene, but nothing came out.

The shock didn't last long. He made it across the room in seconds. Swearing, he dragged her from the fireplace and slammed her against the wall.

"The hell are you doing?"

Between the green fire popping, the robes that might as well have said Treason all over them, and the pounding in her head, she could say nothing.

"Well?" he demanded.

"This isn't what it looks like," she blurted out.

"Isn't it?" he retorted with the most superior sarcasm. "It's _exactly_ what it looks like, you _filthy_ Mudblood." A flush crept into his pale face. "You were talking to those blood traitors you love so much, weren't you? Weren't you?" he repeated.

"No."

Draco swore again and struck her; her head snapped to the side. "Liar!" Tears pricked behind her eyes. "You foul, lying Mudblood, you _dare_..." He trailed away, overcome by his rage. Draco breathed heavily, swelling with anger, while Verity shrank, one hand to her cheek where an ugly bruise was already forming.

"It makes sense now. You cut your hair _because you felt like it_!" He shoved her and she fell into the corner. "You felt like it! You were trying to be pretty for _them_. That letter! At the end of term, I should have seen the signs, you rat. Traitor!" She slid to the floor.

"Please..." she whispered.

He hauled her back to her feet. Then he looked hard at the pink material in his hand. "They gave you this?" he demanded. She nodded, then cringed, afraid of another blow. He simply looked at her, deepest loathing on his face. "Leave my house."

Verity rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "What?"

"I said get out!" He pushed her away from him so she stumbled. "I don't want to see you again, do you hear me? Get out!"

Verity threw open the door and sprinted away, half-blind from the hot tears. His words chased her as she ran through the corridors; her feet thudded on the carpets and her reflection flashed past in the aged mirrors. Though she couldn't remember her journey, she stood at the kitchen door, both hands on the cold iron handle. As she calmed, she realized her belongings were still in the attic. Reluctantly, she turned.

She was not alone in the corridor. Mrs. Malfoy stood in the second door on the left, the one that led into the reception room. She scanned the hall, then beckoned. Verity followed her into the reception room. The heavy door swung shut, and Verity turned silently to Mrs. Malfoy, praying she would ask no questions about her bruised face or magenta robes.

"I cannot change Draco's mind, and you wouldn't stay if I could," Mrs. Malfoy said. Her gaze flitted everywhere but Verity, and she wrung her hands. "Perhaps I should have told you the truth long ago, but at least I cannot see you leave my house without letting you know." Verity's bewilderment must have crossed her face. "Haven't you wanted to know who your parents were?"

"Of course," Verity faltered.

"Or why we kept you instead of turning you out? We didn't need another servant. But I convinced Lucius to let you stay." She sighed.

"My sister married Rodolphus Lestrange as soon as they left Hogwarts, but not because she cared about him. He was from a well-to-do pureblood family, and she did her duty by our family. When the Dark Lord rose to power, they were his first and most ardent supporters, and when he fell, they were the last to admit defeat. The fools tortured an Auror and his wife for information about him. They landed themselves in Azkaban."

What did this have to do with her, Verity wondered, but Mrs. Malfoy wasn't finished. "However, about a year before the fall of the Dark Lord, months before I had my Draco, Bellatrix confessed a secret to me. She had given birth, a daughter. But her dedication to the Dark Lord was so extreme, she could accept no distractions. So she abandoned the child in a Muggle town, left it to die. I was the only one to know of that child's existence."

Verity sank onto a chair, gripping the arms. It couldn't be true. Her mother had her blonde hair and wrote for a magazine, and her father used to play Quidditch; she had a baby sister with a perfect laugh. Her fantasies crashed in flames, replaced by the haughty face that jeered at her from wanted posters every morning.

"I don't know where you went or how you survived, but you appeared on my doorstep five years later. I recognized my sister at once. You may not have her hair or her eyes, but in your smile I saw my Bella before the Dark Arts consumed her.

MacLaren already suggested I allow you to stay as another servant, so I chose that. I hid your identity from everyone, even Lucius. I gave you what you needed for your first year at Hogwarts. If you possessed half my sister's talent, you would be an exceptional witch, and I would not keep you from that. I told Lucius the truth then, but he agreed you shouldn't know."

Verity pressed the palms of her hands against her closed eyes until colored light flashed behind her eyelids. "I'm a pureblood."

"Yes."

"Draco is..."

"He is your cousin."

"I could call myself Verity Lestrange, instead of MacLaren, couldn't I?" she asked.

"I suppose." Mrs. Malfoy looked at her sympathetically. It was the strangest feeling, Verity thought vaguely, to be the object of such an emotion in this house.

"I don't want to." Her steady voice surprised her. "They didn't want me; I don't want their name. MacLaren is good enough for me." She stood. "So this is goodbye."

"It is." With a clean conscience, Mrs. Malfoy was calmer, but sadder. "You have become a witch I am proud to call my niece."

Verity smiled wanly. "Thank you," she said. "Goodbye...Aunt."

She walked the familiar path to the attic without seeing it. The realization she would never walk these halls again did not give her the joy she expected. She stood at the fireplace again, holding her trunk without realizing she'd packed it. She knelt and scraped the last of the Floo powder from the glass shards on the dusty floor.

"Diagon Alley."

* * *

"Okay, what happened to your face?" Fred asked that night. "You promised you'd tell us tonight." When Verity arrived hours late, bruised and tearstained, carrying everything she owned, he and George respected her wish to postpone explanations, but he couldn't take more waiting.

"That is a long story." She waved her wand and a pair of socks folded themselves and landed on the coffee table. After the shop closed she'd taken over laundry, partly to make up for her lateness, and partly because Fred had mentioned the troubling fact that he'd worn the same trousers for two weeks.

She eased herself onto the only clothing-free spot on the sofa and explained the morning, sentences punctuated by laundry leaping and folding itself. The boys' dark silence meant they were inches from storming Malfoy Manor to let Draco know what they thought of him.

When she got to Mrs. Malfoy's confession, Fred made an angry noise. "You mean that—" his word made Verity flinch, "knew the whole time you were her niece and she let everyone use you as a house-elf? Merlin! You should have been at least as rich as Malfoy, your parents had loads of money, and they were even higher up with You-Know-Who..."

"Freddie, they went to Azkaban right after I was born," Verity said; she hardly wanted him to cause a scene next time he met the Malfoys.

"Old Lucius ought to have set you up. He can afford it."

"Are you sure you want me to have grown up in high pureblood society?" she asked, balancing George's last shirt on the tower of clean laundry. "Don't you think growing up _exactly_ like Draco might have made me a _bit_ more like him?" Fred had no answer. "Still, what am I supposed to do?" she asked with a sigh. "I can't go off and—live in the Shrieking Shack!" With a wild gesture, wand forgotten, to accompany her point, the shirt flew off the pile again and hit Fred.

George looked up from the _Daily Prophet_ crossword for the first time, overlooking the shirt on his twin's face. "Sure you could!" he said. "We're in talks to buy out Zonko's, and you'd be perfectly placed to run it for us."

Verity laughed. "Sorry to disrupt the business prospects of Weasley and Weasley, but it's not my taste."

Halfway through George's protests that they could remodel, Fred cut in. "Move in with us!"

"FREDERICK WEASLEY!"

"Oi," he moaned, rubbing his ears, "did my mum teach you how to do that? I meant the floor above our flat—it's only storage now—no trouble—set it up for you—" He hastily explained he in no way meant to suggest anything like what she was suggesting he was suggesting.

She softened. "What would your mother say?" She picked up the clothes and headed for their rooms.

"Lots," said Fred, disappointed but not defeated. "Let's get married so you can move in without any hassle."

"Fred Weasley!" The clothes tumbled out of her arms, and she dove under the table after them. When she reappeared, her face was pink. "I'm not even of age!"

"So I'm ahead of myself," he relented. "But you must be at least vaguely pleased, because you haven't hexed me." He gave her a winning smile.

"Vaguely. Remember, my specialty is potions, not hexes." She swept out of the room, blowing a kiss.

"Well," Fred said, satisfied, "I'm almost engaged."

"That's a good start. Congratulations, old boy." George shook his hand vigorously. "Still, I'd be careful what I eat tonight. Snape probably taught her Seventeen Ways to Poison Crazy Redheads first year."

Three days later, Verity stood in the kitchen of her tiny studio flat. She ran her hand over the polished countertop and the white cupboards. Breathing in, she smelled hot gingerbread and a faint strawberry from the pen by the sofa bed, where several tiny pink balls of fuzz hummed peacefully.

It was too quiet.

"Fred! George!" she yelled, stomping on the floor.

"Coming!" Fred's voice came through the floor. A minute later the twins knocked on the door. Verity pointed her wand at it, and it flew open.

"Took you long enough." She whirled her wand at the gingerbread on the stove. A knife flew from the caddy, landed in the pan, and began to cut with jerky motions.

"Traffic was bad," George said. Verity rolled her eyes. Bad traffic up the stairs; what _was_ this world coming to?

"Bother kitchen spells!" she cried as the knife stopped short. She tugged it out and cut the gingerbread by hand. "Laundry I'm wonderful at, but I never could cook except like a Muggle. It's embarrassing."

"I'll get Mum to give you lessons," Fred said, sneaking his arms around her waist.

"Watch your hands while I've got a knife, Mr. Weasley," she threatened, slapping them away.

"By the way," George said, sticking his arm into the Pygmy Puffs' pen so they could tumble around his hand, "laundry the other night, helping us put this together, kitchen spells today, I'm surprised the Ministry hasn't picked you up yet. Underage magic and all that."

Verity's jaw dropped. "You're not serious? Oh Merlin, no."

Fred and George burst out laughing.

"What?"

"When have I ever been serious?" said George. A Pygmy Puff crawled into his sleeve. "You're fine; if they were sending you to Azkaban they'd have done it days ago."

"Isn't there a Trace on underage magic?"

"Course, but it catches magic done _around_ under-seventeens." Fred reached stealthily for the gingerbread.

"For all they know, it was us the whole time," George said.

Fred swore at the top of his lungs and stuffed his burnt fingers into his mouth.

Verity whirled around. "What've you done now?" He shook his head and nodded at the innocent pan on the counter. "Serve you right," she laughed, turning the cold water on.

As Fred ran his hand under the tap, George tugged the Pygmy Puff out of the back of his collar and returned it to its pen. "Like I said, if you cast spells around overage wizards, the Ministry's got no way to tell who's done it, so you're off the hook. They don't even check if you live with adult wizards."

"Imagine how much paper they'd've wasted sending letters to our house, eh?" Fred grinned.

"I could have used magic at Malfoy Manor every summer!" Verity complained. "I thought I'd be arrested if I levitated a dust speck!"

"You learn something new every day, don't you," George said airily. "For example, today Freddie here learned the dangers of cookie sheets."


	10. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes

_(Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ — _Chapter 6: Draco's Detour)_

The shop was packed. Verity was sure her arms were bruised under her sleeves from being jostled and elbowed in the crowds. Getting to shelves to restock became an ordeal that risked a trampling. Eventually she took refuge behind the cash register and let problems come to her.

"Excuse me miss, how much for a small box of Wildfire Whizbangs?"

"Five Galleons."

"Which of the Skiving Snackboxes do you recommend?"

"I like the Fever Fudge best myself."

"I'm so sorry, my son spilled a bottle of Color-Change Ink over there."

"I'll take care of it."

By noon, she was sweaty and exhausted. Her feet ached, and she never wanted to explain how a Skiving Snackbox worked again. Finally, Fred wrestled his way to the counter.

"Take a break," he said. "I'll hold down the fort for a while."

" _Thank you,_ Mr. Weasley," she sighed, and she left to get lunch from her flat. Her feet were so sore, however, she lost interest and trudged into the boys' flat, which required only one flight of stairs. She collapsed into George's armchair, Summoned her lunch, and fell fast asleep.

When she awoke, she stood gingerly, wondering why she was in the twins' flat in the middle of the afternoon. As her memory returned, she groaned. She'd probably overshot her lunch break by a few hours. She took the stairs two at a time, straightening her skirt at extreme risk of falling.

"Hey, Verity," George said as she ran into him. "Where have you been?"

"I am so sorry," she gasped. "I went for lunch and fell asleep. Bother, how long have I been out?"

"Couple hours. You're fine. Fred says he'll fire you, but that's Fred. While you're here, could you hang these up?" he asked; he had a pile of Shield Cloaks in his arms.

"Of course, Mr. Weasley," she said, determined to make up for her unauthorized nap. She took the cloaks and hurried to the Defense Against the Dark Arts room, where she hung them on the rack. As she put the last one on its hanger, she ran her hand over it gently. If she tried to buy one, the boys would refuse her money, but she couldn't admit she still couldn't cast a proper Shield Charm. With a reluctant glance, she let it go and pushed aside the curtain into the main room.

Fred and George stood at the front with half their family, along with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. The visitors gaped at the store, and the twins glowed with pride.

Verity bustled around to make herself useful, but with Fred and George showing off and giving Potter the tour, she was overwhelmed. The crowds hadn't thinned since lunch; if anything, they'd thickened.

"Excuse me, how does the Owl Order service work?" She spent two minutes convincing a middle-aged witch with three boisterous children that yes, the brochure explained everything.

"What's the difference between Cupid's Tears and Twilight Moonbeams?" Verity was capable of explaining this to the wispy young witch, having brewed both herself. She recommended Cupid's Tears for the gentleman in question—and a good strong Calming Draught for the girl.

"Miss, I can't find any joke cauldrons. Are they sold out?" This stumped her for a moment. She'd just seen those shelves full. How many people were in the shop, that an entire shelf of cauldrons sold in fifteen minutes? At any rate, she realized she had to find the boys, as only they could navigate the cluttered storeroom.

"If you'll wait here, I'll get Mr. Weasley. He can help." She squeezed through the shoppers to the Defense Against the Dark Arts room and poked her head around the curtain. The boys were showing Potter their Decoy Detonators. "There's a customer outside looking for a joke cauldron, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley." She peeked at Harry. He hadn't given her a second glance. He didn't even recognize her.

"Right you are, Verity, I'm coming," George said promptly. He and Fred had a short argument with Harry over whether he was allowed to pay for things, then he swept through the curtain, followed by the others. "Incidentally, why didn't you point the bloke to the shelf?" he asked.

"They're sold out," she told him.

"Already?" He ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay. I'll nip downstairs and grab some, and you tell the gentleman I'm on my way."

"Thank you," she said, and headed back to her refuge behind the cash register.

After giving the wizard George's message, the next customer with a question was the last one she wanted to see. Ron. His arms were full of packages he was counting.

"Sorry, how much for—" He looked up and recognized her. "You!" She nodded. "The bloody hell are you doing here?"

"I work here." She braced herself.

"You work—here?" he repeated. She nodded again. "How much is Malfoy paying you? Honestly—when we get an owl from Fred that his girl ran off with Draco Malfoy, or whatever you do when this stops being fun, I'll..." He trailed off, possibly unable to find a strong enough word he could say in public, or perhaps the sheer number of rude things he had to say were all trying to come out at once.

"I'm sorry," she said daringly. "Did you still have a question?"

"Never mind," he grumbled. "I'll ask Fred and George." Verity wondered, if she were to suggest he have a nice day, whether he would throw something at her.

A few minutes later, she found a pile of assorted products on the Daydream Charms shelf. They looked like the things Ron had been holding. Bloody nuisance. She tried to leave them alone, as there was so much else to do, but eventually she couldn't stand it. She snatched the boxes, glancing over them to see where they went. A few belonged in the upper part of the store. Halfway up the stairs, she heard her name.

"Are you talking about Verity?" she heard Fred say. She glanced down.

"Ron said some interesting things to her; that's all I'm saying." Verity tried to finish climbing the stairs.

"Well, he shouldn't have."

"Who is she?"

"My girlfriend," Fred said, and she glowed.

"How long have you had a girlfriend?" Mrs. Weasley said, shocked.

"Since seventh year. We met at the Yule Ball sixth year, but things—" Fred's sentence was cut off by a posse of squealing teenage witches who'd found the Pygmy Puffs. Unfortunately, they didn't drown out Mrs. Weasley's reply.

"You've had a girlfriend for a year and a half and didn't tell your own mother? Do you have an ounce of common sense...We don't know anything about her...the Malfoys, Fred! Oh, Ron was right to be suspicious. Arthur, _did you know about this?_ "

Verity had a sneaking suspicion on that point, and sure enough, when she peered over the banister, she saw Mr. Weasley fidget. She couldn't hear his reply, but she guessed Fred had written his father and they had both "forgotten" to tell Mrs. Weasley.

Verity decided to rescue Fred. She made it downstairs in record time. "Mr. Weasley," she interrupted his defense, "we're out of Instant Darkness Powder."

"We are?" She realized they'd just restocked it. Since her back was to his mother, she risked a wink. "Right-o. I'll get it. If you'll excuse me, Mum." With a sigh of relief only Verity saw, he headed toward the cellar. Looking anywhere but at Mrs. Weasley, Verity returned to the cash register. Only a few more hours until the store closed and she got peace and quiet.


	11. The Potions Master

_(Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ — _Chapter 9: The Half-Blood Prince)_

Professor Snape no longer taught Potions. Verity looked dismally at the familiar door, less than thrilled for a new teacher after five years. If it turned out like the changes in Defense Against the Dark Arts over the years, she feared for the class.

She took her mind off the unknown Professor Slughorn with who else made it to N.E.W.T. Potions. The only other Slytherins were Draco, Nott, and Zabini. Pansy, thankfully, scraped an "Acceptable" and couldn't proceed. She complained, but only, Verity knew, because she wanted as many classes as possible with Draco. Her roommate's long-standing interest now bordered on obsession. Verity found it highly entertaining.

Four Ravenclaws had progressed. Three of them she recognized from the D.A., but the fourth, a girl, she couldn't put a name to. Only one Hufflepuff was in the corridor (hardly unexpected; it _was_ Hufflepuff), MacMortimer or something, another Dumbledore's Army member. Representing Gryffindor House, she saw as they hurried up, were Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. She was shocked; Harry and Ron never paid attention to Professor Snape. Professor Slughorn must be more lax about who he let into his N.E.W.T. class.

As her thoughts turned to Professor Slughorn, the man himself opened the dungeon door. He was one of the fattest men she had ever seen (though, she reminded herself, growing up with a family as thin as the Malfoys made some difference), and he had a huge silver mustache that gave him the appearance of a large, friendly walrus.

"Welcome, welcome," he boomed. "Come along inside!"

As they filed into the dungeon, Verity breathed in the steam from the potions already bubbling in cauldrons at each of the front tables. The one nearest the door attracted her attention at once. It was a pearly color, and smelled all at once of gunpowder, roast beef, and a sticky-sweet smell that might be Puking Pastille. Amortentia, she realized. Love potion. She caught herself smiling lazily.

Through the haze, she saw Draco, Nott, and Zabini already at the far table, and she tore herself from the alluring scent of the Amortentia and hurried over.

"Now then, now then, now then," Slughorn began. "Scales out, everyone, and potion kits, and don't forget your copies of _Advanced Potion-Making_ —"

"Sir?" Harry said loudly, his hand up. Neither he nor Ron were prepared. She was right; Professor Snape wouldn't have accepted them. Carefully, she took out her battered potion kit and scales, the same she'd found in a trunk in her attic five years ago.

"Now then," Slughorn said again, with the air the most important person in the room, "I've prepared a few potions for you to have a look at, just out of interest, you know. You ought to have heard of 'em, even if you haven't made 'em yet. Anyone tell me what this one is?" He pointed to the cauldron nearest Verity and the other Slytherins.

She didn't bother raising her hand—Granger's was in the air before Professor Slughorn finished his sentence, but she knew the clear, hissing potion immediately. Professor Snape had promised before school let out she could help him make it when lessons resumed.

"It's Veritaserum, a colorless, odorless potion that forces the drinker to tell the truth," Hermione recited.

Verity noticed her classmate's gratification at having a new professor to impress. Professor Snape was never any too pleased with her, either in Potions or in the morning's Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Predictably, Hermione also identified the Polyjuice Potion by the Ravenclaw table and the Amortentia at hers without any trouble. Slughorn looked like he'd been given an early Christmas present.

"May I ask your name, my dear?" he asked, barely suppressing his excitement.

"Hermione Granger, sir."

"Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"No, I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see."

Draco leaned over to Nott and muttered, "Wait till that self-important Mudblood learns brains aren't everything with Slughorn." Both of them snickered, and he sat back, waiting for Slughorn to turn cold to Hermione.

He gave Gryffindor twenty points.

Professor Slughorn explained the effects of Amortentia, and Verity noticed how differently he referred to it than Snape had when they discussed it. Though Slughorn stressed the dangers of obsessive love, Snape scoffed at the idea there could be anything else.

"Love is Dumbledore's favorite solution to the world's problems," he had said with a sneer. "But I have lived my share as well, and fools who cannot control their emotions are always the ones taken advantage of." He nearly suggested the attraction Amortentia created was more useful, more convenient, and better than real love.

"And now, it is time for us to start work," Slughorn said.

"Sir," said Ernie (MacMillan, she remembered, not MacMortimer), "you haven't told us what's in this one." He pointed to the tiny cauldron on Slughorn's desk, which popped cheerfully, sending golden splashes arcing through the air.

Slughorn told the class, with much dramatic flair, the potion was called Felix Felicis, and Hermione told them that meant liquid luck, and Draco got _interested_. For the first time today, he sat straight, with the eager expression usually on his face in Potions. She hadn't realized it was gone until it came back.

He wasn't the only one interested. The others badgered Professor Slughorn with questions, which he answered happily.

Then he announced, "And that is what I shall be offering as a prize in this lesson."

If Draco had been interested before, Verity wondered what that made him now. Engrossed. She watched his pointed face, alight with purpose. Whatever he hoped would happen once he used the Felix Felicis, it'd be nothing good.

"So how are you to win my fabulous prize?" Slughorn said, businesslike. "Well, by turning to page ten of _Advanced Potion-Making_." Verity's eyes widened. "We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death."

Now as excited as Draco, Verity threw open her book to a page already creased and picked the valerian roots out of her potion kit. If there was a better way to impress a new teacher than making a potion she already knew, she didn't know what. Professor Snape taught her about Draught of Living Death in February, and had given her a few tricks she bet no one else in class knew.

She finished cutting her valerian roots long before any of the Slytherin boys, and in around ten minutes turned on the heat under her cauldron. This took longer than she knew it would take the others, but Draught of Living Death was worthless if it got too hot. You couldn't turn the heat to any old temperature and go from there; it had to be precise.

Several people tried to cut their sopophorous beans, often in danger of cutting their fingers too. The shriveled bean was hard as a rock, and a good deal slipperier. While Draco and the others were focused on their own potions, she turned her knife and crushed the bean with the flat of the blade. A bubble of pride rose in her chest as the juice turned her potion palest lilac.

Professor Slughorn walked by their table. He examined the four cauldrons and gave Verity a paternal smile. Draco adopted the greasy manner used for sucking up to Professor Snape and other persons of importance.

"Sir," he said, "I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?"

Slughorn wouldn't meet Draco's eyes. "Yes. I was sorry to hear he had died," he said uncomfortably, "although of course it wasn't unexpected, dragon pox at his age..." His sentence died and he left for the Ravenclaws.

This exchange did nothing but improve Verity's buoyant mood. Draco didn't have Slughorn's bias; another factor out of her way. He wasn't doing as well as usual; his potion remained stubbornly purple. Nott and Zabini were no better. No doubt the Ravenclaws would do a decent job, as would Hermione Granger, but had any of them made the potion before, much less under Professor Snape's eye? Not likely. She was going to win the Felix Felicis. She was actually going to win it.

Stir seven times counterclockwise, once clockwise (after making sure no one saw her following different instructions), and repeat until the potion was transparent. Five minutes were left to eliminate the last hints of pink.

She heard Draco let out his breath quickly. His eyes were fixed on her potion. His hair stuck up from the steam, and his face was flushed. The effect might have been comical, but a poisonous thought glimmered in his eyes.

"Oh no, you don't," he hissed under his breath, and he reached over and turned the flames all the way up under her cauldron.

Verity gasped and scrambled to turn them off, but the damage was done. Her potion, which had been almost clear, spit blood red fumes.

"And time's...up!" Professor Slughorn called from the front of the room. "Stop stirring, please!" Verity rested her elbows on the table, covered her face with her hands, and tried not to cry.

* * *

"Professor Slughorn mentioned you yesterday," said Professor Snape that Thursday night, in a flat tone. "Only in passing. The primary topic of his conversation was Potter's _outstanding_ performance in the first Potions lesson of the year."

She developed an intense interest in the cracks in the stone floor.

"He seems to believe Potter has 'inherited his mother's talent,' and is by far the best potioneer in the class," Snape said. "Enlighten me. How did a boy whose only Potions talent lies in copying off his more intelligent friends create a better draught on his first attempt than the student who has done so twice?"

Verity cleared her throat. She suspected Professor Snape wouldn't appreciate her accusing his other favorite of sabotage.

"I made a mistake," she said lamely.

"Obviously," he retorted. "To prove you haven't lost your touch, make it again. Without mistakes."

"Yes, Professor."

Gone was the bubbling confidence, but gone also were the distractions and checking to make sure no one watched her complete certain steps. Though faced with as much pressure as Tuesday, at least she wasn't creating a first impression. She took savage pleasure in keeping the heat exactly right all the way through, and she presented Professor Snape with a transparent potion at the end of the hour, feeling at least partially vindicated.

He said nothing as he inspected her work, which meant she had done well. In keeping with their strange relationship, she didn't speak either. If potionmaking in the classroom changed for the worse, she wanted everything else to remain exactly as it should be.


	12. A Change in the Wind

_(Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ — _Chapter 15: The Unbreakable Vow)_

Verity leaned out the Owlery window, fingers splayed across the stone sill. The icy December air rushed into her lungs and stung her nose. She shivered as the breeze cut through her nightgown, but the chill wasn't entirely unpleasant. She wanted to wake up; her dormitory was unbearably stuffy. Owls hooted softly as they swooped in from their night's hunting and settled on their perches in the rafters. The musty smell of bird mixed with crisp morning air permeated the round tower room.

Even the colors outside spoke of the change. It made her uneasy.

She didn't know what she expected to see as she gazed on the iron-grey sky. Fred and George hadn't owled since the school year started. It wasn't safe to write anymore, and she knew that. Still, most mornings she crept to the Owlery and scanned the skies until the sun rose.

She wondered where they were. Had they already begun their day, or were they still in bed, like the school below? How were they managing without her? She imagined them setting up without her redoing everything behind them. She imagined the state of their laundry basket. She imagined them by the fire, Fred on the hearth and George in his chair, laughing over hot butterbeer, without her laughing with them. Their warm smiles that put her at ease in an instant, the smell of Fred's robes, the brightly colored boxes shining on the shelves.

Footsteps behind her snapped her back to reality, and she found her face wet with tears. She shook herself, brushed them off with her sleeve, and turned around with a blank face.

"Draco?"

"Verity?"

The moment couldn't have been more awkward if they'd tried. They had scarcely spoken, much less been alone together, since he had called her names, slapped her, and thrown her out of Malfoy Manor. She had never more wished to be invisible. His face too was the blank mask Verity's was, but she would die before asking if he'd been crying.

"What are you doing here?" he said, but his voice cracked.

She didn't answer, preoccupied with perfect Draco's disheveled appearance. His usually sleek white-blond hair stuck up on one side, the top of his shirt unbuttoned, his tie crooked. He looked like he'd hurried out of bed, assuming no one would see him. She blinked. What was the question?

"I came up for air. You?"

"You weren't expecting him to write?"

Verity made a split-second decision. "Not anymore." She discarded the blank expression and allowed him to see her unhappiness. She traced a circle on the inside of her arm. "He was a mistake. He only wanted me if I'd spy on you. I'm sorry." His eyes were still narrowed, but he seemed to buy it, so she played it even stronger. "When you caught me in August," she said, letting her tears fall, "he treated me horribly, shouted at me about how I'm useless, he didn't want to see me again. I'm sorry. He was an awful, _awful_ mistake." She wiped her eyes, sniffling for effect.

When she dared sneak a glance at Draco, he uncrossed his arms, and his expression was more condescending than suspicious. "I predicted that," he said. "Worthless slackers, both of them. Unfortunately, I no longer require your assistance. I've outgrown you."

"Of course."

"At least you're on the right side again. I hope for your sake you aren't lying to me," he said. "Everyone on that side will pay, and after Mudbloods, blood traitors are first to go." He turned on his heel and left the Owlery without sending anything. She realized he didn't count her among Mudbloods. His mother must have told him.

_(Chapter 30: The White Tomb)_

It was Thursday night. As usual, Verity collected her potion kit and made the familiar journey to Professor Snape's office. She knocked twice, then cautiously pushed the door open. She sat on the edge of the hard stool across from his desk like always. Everything looked the same. Row upon row of jars filled with potions and ingredients lined the walls, the dark desk still impeccably clean after so many years; nothing had changed.

That, of course, was a lie. If she waited for Professor Snape to arrive, she would wait forever. As far as anyone knew, he was not coming back. He left Hogwarts after killing Professor Dumbledore.

It didn't make sense. No one could kill Professor Dumbledore, least of all Professor Snape. If he had been a murderer, surely she would have known, wouldn't she?

Every week for six years, she sat on this stool and learned from him. He taught her so much; she counted him among her friends. Who noticed her from the start and treated her like more than Draco's shadow? When Mrs. Malfoy told her about her parents, who was the first person, besides Fred and George, to hear it? In whose charge, for the first time since MacLaren died, did she feel cared for? Apparently, a murderer's. She rubbed her arm until it hurt.

Her thoughts turned to Professor Dumbledore. How could such a good man be dead, regardless of who killed him? She remembered showing him her memories in his Pensieve three years before. He must have had more important tasks. Professor Snape told him she lived with the Malfoys; she realized he wanted to check on her. His heart must have been bigger than the average man's to care for one unimportant student the way he did. Now, that heart was stopped.

Fury coursed through her, and she leapt to her feet and snatched a tall, thin jar from the shelf. She was about to throw it to the floor and shatter it when something stayed her hand. To destroy her teacher's property would be to admit he no longer had her respect.

She returned the jar and backed away, gathered her things and rushed from the room before it forced her to think anymore.


	13. Her Nightmares

_(Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ — _Chapter 10: Kreacher's Tale)_

Verity found herself at the drawing room door of Malfoy Manor, the Dark Mark slashed into its polished surface. From the other side came terrible, heart-wrenching screams and a sickeningly familiar voice shouting, " _Crucio!"_ She pushed open the door. Fred lay crumpled in the dark, bruised and bleeding. Fire flared and threw the room into sharp relief. She realized it was not only physical pain in his damaged face, because it was no Death Eater torturing him.

It was George. His eyes were blank and unseeing, but his laugh twisted his face into an alien sneer. He had to be under the Imperius Curse, she told herself; he must be. Green light filled the room with a crack, and both the twins fell, dead. Verity cried out. The curse came from the wand in her hand.

She woke with a scream.

Pounding on the door. "Verity? Verity! Are you alright?" She stumbled out of bed and unlocked the door. Fred stood there in his pajamas with his wand lit, whole and unhurt, but frantic with worry. The moment the door opened his gaze flew around the room, searching for Death Eaters, dementors, a boggart.

"Nightmares again?" he said. She nodded and wiped her tears. "The same one?" She shook her head. Carefully, he led her back to bed and lit the candles on the table before sitting next to her.

"Oh, Freddie," she said with an enormous sob, "it was George this time, and you were screaming and he _laughed_ , and then—it was _me!_ " Her breaths came in gasps. "When will this awful war end?" she asked, drawing her knees to her chest.

"Soon," he said. "We'll be done before you know it; you've got to stick it out."

She broke down again and cried harder, her shoulders shaking. "I can't," she sobbed, her face buried in her hands. "I'm so afraid. Every night—I can't bear it—and it's not just nights! All the time, I don't know if I'll ever see you again—or I'll hear something awful—I see it in the paper, Imperiused and dead and missing. It could be you next, or George...I wish you weren't in that awful Order."

"It's hard," said Fred, "but we knew the risk when we joined. It's not like we've never been in tight spots before."

"This isn't Hogwarts!" Verity said. "Filch won't...give you detention if you're caught!"

"Really? That old codger must have had a change of heart. Last we saw him he was set to flog us to pieces for a little swamp—"

"It's not _funny_!" Her head sank to her knees.

"I'm sorry, love," he said, putting his arms around her. "Bad timing?"

"I'm so scared."

"You're not the only one. How do you think I feel, with you back at Hogwarts? Dumbledore gone, and Snape and the Carrows in charge..."

Verity sat up, her face tear-streaked. "I couldn't make it on the run. Besides, Snape knows I'm pureblood. I take lessons with him, he won't forget I should be there. Maybe I'll find things out for you—I can spy!" she finished desperately.

"You're still taking lessons with Snape?" Fred said. "Alone with the fellow who killed Dumbledore?"

"And cut off George's ear."

"I remember!"

Verity sighed and rested her head on Fred's shoulder. "It was a better plan when he was just head of Slytherin."

"Right." He decided to move the conversation away from such depressing topics. "Remember when we met?" Verity gave a small smile at the memory. "And spent the whole Yule Ball roasting Malfoy."

"I did like that," she said softly. "But they closed the ball too soon. We could have gone on for hours." A yawn interrupted her giggle.

"Here," Fred said. "Lie down. Stupid of me, keeping you up. It's two; you need your rest."

She settled back into bed complacently enough, but as Fred turned to leave, she caught at his hand. "Freddie. I'm scared to go back to sleep."

He pulled a bottle of deep purple-blue liquid from his pocket. "Sleeping draught," he said. "No dreams, no nothing, just rest."

"Are you sure?" she asked as he poured half the bottle's contents into a cup on the side table.

He nodded. "Just this once." Verity drained the cup in one drink, and her mind clouded. She struggled to keep her eyes open as Fred sat beside her, stroking her hair gently. "Good night," she heard him whisper as she drifted.

Fred stayed at Verity's bedside a few minutes after she fell asleep, then he extinguished the candles and kissed her forehead. He clutched the sleeping draught in his pocket as he locked her door. She wasn't the only one having nightmares.


	14. Staying Alive

_(Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ — _Chapter 24: The Wandmaker)_

"Have you finished, Pansy?" Verity asked of the _Daily Prophet_ by her breakfast plate.

"Yeah," Pansy said languidly, staring at a blank piece of paper. Verity knew it was a charmed picture of Draco. Her roommate talked to it in the middle of the night. As Verity reached for the paper, however, Pansy looked up sharply. "Can't you take out a subscription?"

"I don't have money." She shook her head at the front page: ATTACKS BY MUGGLES MORE FREQUENT, SAY MINISTRY OFFICIALS.

"Think of that," Pansy said, a hint of her old acerbity back. "A pureblood without enough money for the _Daily Prophet_. Funny how you managed," she continued. "You used to be a Mudblood, but as soon as it got important, here you are with pureblood credentials."

Verity had expected this. Everyone else thought it odd too.

Since she only had Narcissa Malfoy's say-so she was pureblood, and Bellatrix seemed unlikely to swear to her unwanted daughter's blood status in front of the Ministry, Verity and the twins worked quickly when blood registration became official. She'd sent an owl to Professor Snape. He was headmaster (terrible as the idea was). He owled Mrs. Malfoy, asking for her assurance of Verity's story. With two prominent supporters of the Dark Side vouching for her, she avoided scrutiny. He even gave her an excuse to tell anyone who asked questions—one that didn't involve explaining she was the Lestranges' abandoned child.

"Professor Snape figured it out," she said easily. "I don't know who my parents are, so he tested my blood, and he could tell it was pure Wizarding blood."

Disappointed, Pansy grunted and tucked back into her breakfast as Verity returned to the _Prophet_. Most of it she skimmed and disregarded as rubbish, but when she got to the classified ads she stopped. Nowadays, they were the only nonfiction in the entire paper.

A man in Sussex needed help with undetectable poisons (she considered writing false instructions). Junebug Wilkins wanted to sell two musical teapots from her grandmother (price upon request). P. Travisham of Lower Flagley owned King Arthur's own crown, which had been handed down in his family from Merlin himself, and which he was selling for the bargain price of a thousand Galleons. There were also pleas for information about missing family and friends, which made her sad, and one lady posting a bounty on a neighbor who trampled her prize-winning Snargaluffs before they moved.

There was one last note in the corner of the page. It opened with "Hello then, miss." She dropped her fork. Eagerly, she looked closer.

_Hello then, miss. We two are on a holiday. Your parents' friends were in our neighborhood. We're in good shape though. We're well-fed and have clean socks. Keep your chin up. Miss you so much it hurts. Love and love and love from me, and get-a-room-why-don't-you from him._

"Pansy," Verity said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly, "do you mind if I keep the classifieds?"

"What for?"

"This gentleman doesn't know how to brew an undetectable poison. He's offered a good reward. If I get the money, I can subscribe to the _Prophet_ myself and stop borrowing yours." This sounded good to Pansy. Verity slipped the page into her robes, beaming.

The twins were in hiding, somewhere they weren't in charge of cooking or laundry. Whatever had caused their move, they were safe and alive.

Returning to Hogwarts was hardly worth it, she knew. Fear sank into every shadowy corner, every whispered conversation, every moment of daily life. Often she wondered if it wouldn't have been better to evade Snatchers with the boys. By far the worst, beyond the terror of the Carrows, was the isolation. She learned nothing of the outside world except what she read between the lines in the _Prophet_.

Leave it to the twins, though, to figure out how to send her a secret message. She imagined them brainstorming ways to get it to her. Someone (Fred) would suggest they march right to the gates of Hogwarts, demand Filch deliver the letter, and Disapparate before he knew what hit him. George would come up with something less mental. Silly, clever boys.

_(Chapter 25: Shell Cottage)_

Verity copied down "Common Misconceptions about Inferi" as Amycus wrote it on the blackboard. She already knew what she needed about Inferi: they were dead, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named used them. Unfortunately, because of the second point, she had to sit through Dark Arts (or, as she referred to it, Defense against Harry Potter) as Amycus waffled about how these useful creatures would be installed as security in the Ministry any day.

Filch barged through the door, dragging a boy behind him, a Gryffindor seventh year with soot-blackened robes and face. Amycus turned away from the blackboard. His eyes lit up greedily.

"Finnigan? Again?" he said. "What is it this time?" Finnigan was a frequent name in detention; he had been a good friend of Harry Potter. Still, Verity suspected he got away with more than he was punished for or even accused of.

"Caught him blowing up the toilets on the fifth floor, Professor Carrow, sir," Filch said with a deep bow. "Brat finished his work before I could stop him, I'm afraid. I suggest detention."

"At the least," Amycus said happily. "Let's see." He scanned his class. Most of them, Crabbe and Goyle included, sat up in their seats, but Verity and the other quarter of the students stared at their shoes and pretended they didn't exist. "MacLaren." Her heart sank. "I haven't seen you work lately. Come here." Amycus shoved Finnigan against the wall, then gestured for Verity. "Wand out, MacLaren," Amycus said. "Unless you want to show me you can do the Cruciatus Curse without a wand."

"No, sir," she breathed, and she withdrew her wand from her robes. She rubbed her arm.

"Let's see it."

"Yes, sir." Verity fixed her gaze on a stone in the wall above Finnegan's head as she pointed her wand at him. " _Crucio_ ," she whispered. He was grimacing, but her curse hadn't been very strong, which was alright, really. Silent, apologetic, she turned to go back to her seat.

"Where are you going? Pathetic. Again." Verity stopped. She couldn't. Fred would have stood up to Amycus. She stood still and tried not to let her hands shake.

"I said _again_." Amycus had his wand out. "Unless you want to join him. Parkinson would love to show you a correct Cruciatus Curse." Pansy sat even straighter and smiled expectantly, hoping Verity would be rebellious and let her show off.

Verity barely breathed, and she certainly didn't move. Bravery wasn't as easy as Gryffindors made it look. She felt a wand at the back of her neck. "One more chance," Amycus hissed in her ear. "I promise I'm better at the Cruciatus Curse than Parkinson. You don't want to cross me."

She broke. Biting her lip, she stepped forward, shut her eyes and said louder, " _Crucio!_ " Finnigan cried out this time, and she heard him fall hard against the wall. Verity's heart ached with him. Quickly, though, too quickly to satisfy Amycus, he stumbled to his feet, breathing heavily, and the wand pressed into her neck.

"One. More. Time. You don't want me to think you're sympathetic," he growled. "I've never been convinced you're a pureblood, no matter what our dear headmaster says, and if you wait one more second I'll let my suspicions _slip_ around the Muggle-Born Registration Committee. How does that sound?"

Torture. Interrogation. Azkaban. Fear took her over. Verity thrust her wand toward Finnigan. " _Crucio!_ " He screamed this time and fell to the floor, his dirty face contorted. The moment Amycus dismissed her, expressing pleasant surprise with her good work, she fled to her seat.

Why, she thought miserably, _why_ did she have to be a Slytherin? Fred and George wouldn't have given in. Neville Longbottom was still here and still fighting. Potter and his friends were who-knew-where working against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Whatever the Order of the Phoenix was doing, Verity hoped they were working fast.


	15. The Battle

_(Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ — _Chapter 31: The Battle of Hogwarts)_

Verity was deep in a dream about making Felix Felicis in a cracked cauldron that sprouted two new leaks for every one she mended. Professor Slughorn peered over her shoulder, saying unhelpful things like, “ _Potter_ did this perfectly the first time,” and, “Professor Snape spoke so highly of you; I’m afraid he seems mistaken,” despite her protests that her cauldron was at fault, not her skills as a potioneer. Suddenly, Professor Slughorn said, in a high, sharp voice most unlike his own, “Wake up, stupid!”

Verity shook her head. “What?”

“Wake _up_!”

Verity opened one eye to find herself in bed with her sheets twisted around herself and every light in their dormitory on. 

“Get up, MacLaren.”

“Parkinson, wh-what?” Verity asked. They had only just gone to bed.

“Professor Slughorn said to get everybody ready. The Dark Lord is coming, and we’re evacuating.” She sighed, as though she would rather brave the Dark Lord.

Verity, on the other hand, leapt out of bed before Pansy finished talking. She dove into her trunk and resurfaced with a black dressing gown, which she shoved her arms through before returning to her trunk. When next she came up for air, her hands were full with her wand, her last few Skiving Snackboxes and her box of potions. She tried for another few handfuls, but Pansy grabbed her shoulder.

“Enough!” she snapped. “We’re supposed to be in the Great Hall now.” Verity shoved what little she’d grabbed into her pockets and stood. At the last moment, she reached under the edge of her covers and tugged out Fred’s last letter.

The Great Hall was dark when the Slytherins arrived. Filch hobbled around lighting candles, but the main light still came from the bright stars on the enchanted ceiling. As they filed into their seats, a tense silence burned with suppressed whispers and racing pulses.

It took minutes for the House tables to fill: no one wanted to goof off. Verity’s heart leapt as she saw a familiar face at the Gryffindor table; Professor McGonagall spoke, but she didn’t hear her. Somehow, Fred and George and their entire family were at Hogwarts. He had been scanning the Slytherin table for her, because their eyes met and they smiled, the smiles of people who were tired and afraid but had their night improved a bit.

“...Prefects, when I give the word, you will organize your House and take your charges, in an orderly fashion, to the evacuation point.”

A blond boy stood at the Hufflepuff table. Verity recognized him: Ernie Macmillan, a good kid all around. “And what if we want to stay and fight?” he said. Several people applauded; one third year Gryffindor piped up with “Hear, hear!”

“If you are of age, you may stay,” said Professor McGonagall.

Fred shook his head. No, you’re not staying. Verity tried to arrange her face into an and-you-think-you-can-stop-me look, but her attention was caught by Lavinia Justice, the sixth year next to her, waving her arm in the air.

“Where’s Professor Snape?” she demanded once she had Professor McGonagall’s attention.

“He has,” replied Professor McGonagall, “to use the common expression, done a bunk.” Much cheering, though not from the Slytherins. Verity fixed her thoughts on Fred to steady herself. “...move quickly and calmly, and do as your prefects—”

Professor McGonagall’s authoritative voice was drowned out by another, a high, cold, terrible voice that echoed through the Hall, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Verity had never heard it before, but as it spoke a chill gripped her, and she knew it must be him. The one they were fleeing. 

“I know you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me.” She clutched the edge of the bench. “Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. You have until midnight.”

The voice faded, leaving a silence more terrible than the words. Harry Potter had come back. That was why He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named waited at their very gates, with her parents and the Malfoys and the Death Eaters. That was why Fred and George and the others were in the Great Hall. Why Potter himself was here, on the other hand, she hadn’t the slightest idea. She wondered with a pang if Draco waited outside as well.

Everyone in the room weighed Harry’s life against theirs.

Pansy made her decision first. She got up, trembling, and cried, “But he’s there! Potter’s _there_! Somebody grab him!”

Crabbe and Goyle half-stood, ready to obey Pansy, but the other Houses got to their feet first. Wands out, three quarters of Hogwarts stood down Draco’s few remaining lieutenants, daring them to “grab” Harry Potter.

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson,” Professor McGonagall said coldly. “You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow.”

Verity stood with the rest of the Slytherins and cast another glance to Fred. He smiled reassuringly, but mouthed one word. _Go._ Reluctantly, she turned to leave. Then a mad thought struck her. Her mother was outside the castle. She ran.

* * *

Verity hurried toward the Forbidden Forest. She didn’t like the idea (she had spent seven years keeping far from it, not over-fond of the creatures inside), but it was the only place she could stay undercover. She crept along the edge of the trees, trying to keep track of both the Death Eaters nearby and the dark interior of the forest.

 _Snap!_ Her feet flew out from under her as she slipped on a crooked branch. An instant later, a jet of green light whistled over her head and hit a tree ten yards away. It burst into flames. 

She heard an imperious voice from the direction of the Killing Curse. “Stay here, Greyback. I’ll take care of it.”

Verity struggled to her feet and whisked behind a tree. She knew it was a pathetic hiding place, but she didn’t exactly see anywhere else. She resisted the urge to run as Bellatrix’s footsteps grew nearer, then stopped. A tree less than five yards away exploded. Verity gasped. Another silent moment, and the tree she hid behind blew up. Flames and shards of wood flew at her. She screamed and leapt from behind it, shielding her face with her arms.

Bellatrix raise her wand and Verity cried out. “Mother!”

They froze; the darkly beautiful Death Eater and the fair girl in the plaid pajamas, neither saying a word. Bellatrix shook herself out of the shock Verity’s words had given her.

“What did you call me?” she said.

“Mother,” Verity said quietly. “That’s what you are, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

Bellatrix’s hand tightened around her wand, and Verity plunged ahead. “Mrs. Malfoy told me. She told me you had a daughter and abandoned her—me—in a Muggle town. She told me I was your daughter.”

“Oh.” Bellatrix dragged her words out with unmistakable relish. “You’re the little street rat Cissy kept around the house. What’s your name, lovely?”

“Pansy.”

Bellatrix closed in on her until they were inches apart, and Verity smelled some rich, sickly scent on her. “ _Liar_ ,” she hissed.

“Verity,” she breathed.

“That’s better,” Bellatrix laughed. “You heard Cissy talk about that girl, and thought you’d turn up, Mummy’s long-lost baby girl back home? Handy I haven’t seen her in so long. Why don’t you prove it?”

Verity closed her eyes and replayed Mrs. Malfoy’s words. Bellatrix’s wand pressed into her side, and her hands raised. The sleeves of her dressing gown slipped down, revealing her bare arms.

Bellatrix shrieked as though she had seen a ghost. She seized Verity’s left arm twisted it until she was staring at the grey mark. “That shadow…” she whispered. “The shadow…”

“Shadow of what?”

In answer, Bellatrix forced her own sleeve past her elbow, exposing the Dark Mark branded there. Verity looked at their two arms. Of course she found the shape so familiar. She had seen it on Mr. Malfoy once, though when he’d caught her staring he’d sent her to the attic for the week. Both her parents had it; somehow it passed to her. 

“How did you survive?” Bellatrix demanded. “Tell me!”

“I don’t know,” Verity confessed. “I don’t know.”

“Isn’t this a jolly family reunion!” said Bellatrix. “Why did you come back? Didn’t Cissy tell you I wanted you dead?”

“I…” Verity stopped. She hadn’t thought. What _had_ she wanted to hear? Bellatrix wasn’t really her mother? She was, but hadn’t abandoned her? She was so sorry and couldn’t wait to take her back, and they could live happily ever after? “I wanted answers.” She hoped that was a safe reply. “I’ve never spoken to my own mother.”

“Now you have,” Bellatrix said. “Are you having _fun_ ?” She pushed Verity down, scraping her hands on the uneven ground. “You’ve got your answers! Here I am, your mother, the Dark Lord’s most faithful servant. Why, pray tell, should I give that up to take care of a snot-nosed mistake? I don’t _love_ you, I don’t _want_ you. Nobody wants you,” she lashed out.

Verity lay where she had fallen, unsure if she had the strength to move. 

“It’s a shame,” Bellatrix continued, her voice poisonously sweet. “You were so brave coming out here, but I can’t have anyone know my _dirty_ little secret. I won’t kill you right away, though; where’s the fun in that? I want to hear you scream first.” She pointed her wand at Verity. “ _Crucio_!”

Her heart must have exploded, her bones must have splintered into a million pieces, she was screaming, screaming loud enough for them to hear her in the castle. Her head spun, the world was nothing but pain. Wild, insane laughter far away. Dementors. Though she could barely connect one thought to another, she remembered there were no dementors. It was Bellatrix.

After days, months, years of pain, Bellatrix removed her wand. Verity gasped for breath. “Isn’t it lovely to know your own mummy doesn’t want you?” she sang out. “I told you, little one, no one wants you. None of your ‘friends’ have come to your rescue.”

Verity’s heart skipped a beat. Come to her rescue... Fred was no match for Bellatrix. He would come to his death. As Bellatrix raised her wand, she braced herself.

“ _Crucio!_ ” Her skin burned, white-hot knives stabbed into her chest again and again and again. She wanted to die, she wanted to die. She was sobbing on the ground, but she held back the screams rising in her throat. At last, the pain receded. Forcing her head up, she saw Bellatrix’s puzzlement and annoyance. 

“Why won’t you scream?” Bellatrix asked. “What’s the matter with you?” Verity remained silent as she had for years, with much more at stake than Lucius’s shouts or Draco’s insults. The noises of battle inside the castle became dim and far away; her ragged breaths loud in her ears. “Why don’t you scream?” Bellatrix demanded. “Answer me! _Imperio!_ ”

A warm, white fog clouded Verity’s mind. The pain ebbed away; her mind was blissfully clear.

 _Tell me the truth_ , said a small voice in the back of her mind, a faint, echoing voice that sounded like Bellatrix. _Tell me._

Verity was about to obey when another voice piped up. I can’t. The second voice sounded like her own. It made more sense, now she thought about it. She listened to the voice and tried to fight back the way Professor Moody taught them so long ago.

_Tell me._

She’ll find out about Fred. She’ll kill him. I can’t tell her.

_Tell me._

I can’t. Harry Potter could fight this off.

 _You’re not Harry Potter, are you,_ the voice said nastily.

“Because...” she dug her fingers into the grass, trying so hard to hold in the words, “if Fred hears me he’ll come running, and you’ll kill him.” She buried her face in her bloody hands as the numbness dissolved and the pain returned, along with the realization of what she had done.

“Fred?” The delight in the harsh voice was terrifying. Bellatrix knelt beside Verity and forced her head up so she had to meet her eyes. “My Verity is in _love_! Mummy shall have to meet her baby girl’s boyfriend, won’t she?” she said. “And if Mummy doesn’t like him…she’ll make sure he never comes calling again!”

“No!” Verity gasped. “No, please. Kill me, anything. Leave him alone!”

“Why so frightened? Is he a blood traitor? Or a Mudblood?” She giggled madly. “This is _perfect_ !” She pointed her wand at Verity’s throat. “ _Sonorus_. Now we know your Freddie can hear you.” She grabbed Verity by the hair and dragged her to her feet. She fingered her wand lovingly, a painter deciding what to do with a fresh canvas. She broke into a smile. “How do you like blood?”

Verity caught her breath. Bellatrix saw her flinch, and her grin widened. She rolled up her sleeves. Verity’s throat was dry. Bellatrix pointed her wand at Verity’s chest, and Verity shut her eyes tight.

“ _Sectumsempra_!” The side of her leg seared with pain, and she cried out and fell to the ground. Hearing her amplified voice echo, she fumbled in her dressing gown for her wand.

“ _Quietus_ ,” she murmured. Reaching down, she felt a huge tear in her pajamas, and something warm and wet soaked her hand. 

It was a moment before she realized there were no further attacks, no delighted laughter.

Bellatrix lay on the ground too, unconscious. A pair of black-clad legs stood in her field of vision. “Draco,” she gasped.

“Get up,” he said. “She’ll be awake soon.” Verity took his offered hand, and he pulled her to her feet. “Get out of here!” 

She didn’t move. Still clutching his hand, she asked, “Why did you save me?”

“Get out of here,” he repeated. “The Stunning Spell barely hit her, but it would have been worse if she’d hit you full on.” His hand flicked to his chest as he spoke. “She’ll be up again before you know it, and I’d hate to be you when she does.”

Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck. They broke apart, and she stumbled away.

As she made it out of sight, she faintly heard Draco say, “I didn’t see who stunned you, Aunt Bella, but they won’t get far. Verity’ll bleed to death before she can cause trouble—if she could have in the first place…”

* * *

Verity fell and rose, staggered and fell again, across the grounds inch by painful inch. Her leg was so hot, so hot, but the rest of her was so cold. Blood flooded down her leg, but she didn’t dare look, knowing she wouldn’t be able to go on if she saw the red lurking in her peripheral vision. 

As the minutes ticked by, the pain in her leg became so intense, the only way she managed not to pass out on the spot was to see his face as it appeared in her nightmares, hurt and dying, and tell herself she could make sure it stayed a dream if she made it to the castle.

Another step, another fall, rise another time.

As she neared Hogwarts, she wondered how to pass the Death Eaters, but that question answered itself as, with an explosion and cries of triumph, they breached the castle’s defenses and rushed in. Verity was halfway through thanking heaven for their departure when she realized the people inside were—Fred was—in greater danger.

She made it to the oak front doors, been blown off their hinges, before her leg collapsed under her. She toppled onto a great chunk of stone. “Ohhhh!” When she saw the damage, she retched.

Bellatrix’s curse had done its work. The cut wasn’t deep, thanks to Draco, but the curse had skidded across the entire side of her right leg, and blood streamed from the wound, dripping into her shoe and onto the flagstones. However much she’d lost on the way, it was too much.

Her wand shook as she gripped the edge of her dressing gown and whispered, _“Diffindo.”_ The bottom few inches tore away, and she tied the black flannel around her leg with trembling fingers. Blood seeped through the fabric, but it was contained. Trying her leg again, she could walk, barely.

Bracing against the walls, she made her way inside. She choked on the dust and smoke in the wreckage that had been the Great Hall. Explosions rocked the castle. Students, teachers, and Death Eaters were locked in combat across every square foot. House tables had been thrown aside; rubble and broken glass were strewn everywhere.

The haze in the air, the curses flying, and her own rapidly blurring vision made it impossible to make out who was who, but Verity saw no flashes of red hair. She stumbled to a nearby corridor, dodging the curses that hit the walls with a crack.

Blindly she dragged herself up staircases and down corridors, searching and searching.

Fred entered the corridor, crossing curses with a hooded Death Eater while Percy and the new Minister dueled next to them. Everything slowed. The throbbing in her head divided her consciousness into heartbeats.

Fred laughed.

Why wouldn’t her head stop spinning?

Harry Potter ran toward them.

Why was he here?

“Hello, Minister! Did I mention I’m resigning?”

Did Percy say something funny?

The smoke stung her nose.

“You’re joking, Perce!” 

Fred’s Death Eater crumpled.

She leaned against the wall, barely awake.

 _“Confringo!”_ A distant voice. No one in the corridor. Outside?

“You actually are joking! I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were—”

An explosion; the world ran too fast and too slow. Someone screamed Fred’s name, a high scream that didn’t stop. Was it her? The wall buckled. Someone threw her arm out, screamed, _“Protego!”_ A shield erupted from the wand at the end of that arm — _was_ it her arm? The rubble hit it with dull thuds. They flew off their feet and landed hard on the ground, but they were alive. Fred was alive. He spoke, but nothing reached her over the roaring in her ears. He smiled, and she offered him a weak smile in return. She fell forward.

The world went black.


	16. The Quiet

_(Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ — _Chapter 32: The Elder Wand)_

"Verity. Wake up. Please wake up!" Her eyes flickered open in the dim light. Fred knelt over her. Anxiety showed its strain in his face. She tried to remember what happened, but everything came back like icy water dumped on her head. Bellatrix had...and Draco...and Fred was...

She tried to sit, but her arms gave out, and Fred caught her. The noises and smell of the fight were fainter here, wherever here was, but it hadn't ended.

"Oh," she grumbled. "We're still in a battle? Bother."

Despite himself, Fred's dirty face twisted into a grin, and he rested his forehead against hers. "Don't _do_ that. You scared me."

"Don't do what? Save your life or pass out?"

Fred didn't answer. "What happened to you?" He had torn another strip from her dressing gown and re-bandaged her leg. The old bandage lay in a wet black pile nearby.

"Bellatrix—" The rest of her sentence was lost in a coughing fit from the battle dust, but that explained well enough.

Fred's brow furrowed again. "I'm staying with you."

They were in a tunnel, blocked by a solid wall of debris. She'd never seen it before. Perhaps it was one of those passages Fred told her about long ago, when his and George's biggest adventures ended in detention and thirty points from Gryffindor. "Are you mad?" she said hoarsely. "You're not being useless. Go help Harry Potter save the world."

"I can't leave you here."

"I have my wand and potions. And I can do a proper Shield Charm. Took long enough." She half-smiled. "Don't worry. I'll start planning. We have to work on invitations. None for my side of the family. If this works out," she went into another spasm of coughs, "they'll be in Azkaban or...hopefully dead. I hate to bother your mother about using your house, but Malfoy Manor is out of the question, and do you _really_ think the shop... Speaking of which," she coughed hard, "we need to put our flats together or we won't have room for our kids."

"You're rambling. Hey. Tell me you're not dying on me."

"Stupid," she said. "I'm planning our wedding. I can't off it now, after all this. Now _go_ , or there won't be any good Death Eaters left to kill." She ran her fingers through his hair. "My Freddie _darling_. I love you."

He leaned toward her, and they kissed, a long, passionate kiss that ignored the blood and dust on their faces and the war raging around them, one that became the whole world for those far too few seconds.

Finally, reluctantly, they broke apart. Fred carefully set Verity down and moved toward the door. There he paused, as if in two minds. He returned to her side, shrugging off his jacket. He laid it over her and, without another word, ran back into the fray.

Alone, Verity wondered what she was going to do. She couldn't very well go into battle; it took all her strength to sit. Nor was she in any condition to duel: if anyone discovered her, they had a sitting duck. The only thing of any use right now was Blood-Replenishing Potion; she swore at herself for forgetting to refill her supply.

She had a tiny bit of Draught of Living Death, enough to knock her out for a few days. If she took it, any Death Eater who found her would think she was dead and leave her be. On the other hand, anyone on their side would think she was dead. She couldn't chance that.

She remembered one lesson with Snape fifth year, when they first talked about the Draught of Living Death. "If taken in a matter of drops," he said, "the draught will render the drinker unconscious for a few minutes only, with the length of time increasing with the amount taken." If she only took a little when she saw people coming, she could avoid trouble from either side.

Settling in under Fred's jacket and taking out her almost-empty potion box, she waited for someone to come, ready for the worst. Within minutes, the warm air and darkness did their jobs, and she fell into a restless sleep.

_(Chapter 36: The Flaw in the Plan)_

When Verity next awoke, she was lying in the Great Hall, near the dais where the staff table used to be. The battle was over. She stumbled to her feet. The pain in her leg had greatly decreased. It had been properly bandaged, her ruined shoes and socks removed, and the blood washed away.

"Verity!" Fred extracted himself from a clump of people in the middle of the Hall and rushed to her. She broke into a smile and threw her arms around his neck in time for her legs to give out again.

"We won," he whispered, his nose buried in her singed hair. "Harry did it. Voldemort's dead." Her heart leapt.

Two years of waking up screaming to find the nightmare wasn't over, culminating in a night of pure terror. All erased by his simple words. She laughed, breathless laughter of relief. "We won," she repeated weakly. "We won. And the others? Bellatrix?" she asked.

"Mum killed her," Fred said proudly. "Housewife and mother of seven, and she single-handedly kills Lord Voldemort's right-hand lady. Didn't come out with a scratch." He paused. "I'm sorry; she _was_ your mum."

Verity scoffed. "Not in anything except blood, and neither of us wanted that. I'm just sorry I didn't see that duel."

"It was mental." He recounted it with a note of awe in his voice. "Bellatrix almost killed Ginny, and Mum went ballistic and dueled her herself. Called her a..." There were first years walking by in a huddle, so he whispered in Verity's ear. Her jaw dropped.

"She didn't!"

"She did," he said. "No one but Mum's ever had the guts to call it to her face before. D'you know Mum hasn't dueled since before George and I were born? Not bad for that out of practice."

He smiled, but it was only for her benefit. Something deeper haunted his face. He had been crying. "Freddie," she murmured, "what happened?" Her attention was drawn again to the knot of people. That was no celebrating throng; they were silent, huddled close with slumped shoulders. "What happened?" she demanded again, terribly frightened.

Fred's jaw clenched. Favoring her injured leg, Verity hurried to the others. They were huddled around a cot, one of a row on which the bodies of the dead were lying. The dead...

"Percy. No." She ran away as her knees weakened, and she slid to the ground. "Oh no. It's my fault."

"What do you mean?" Fred asked, kneeling beside her.

"If I'd made the shield stronger, bigger, he was right there...It's my fault." She gasped and looked up, gripping Fred's arm. "Freddie...Oh, Merlin—in the corridor," she spoke faster and faster, her voice dropping to a hysterical whisper, "the wall fell, and it hit him. It hit his head, and he fell, and he never got up—I didn't know, I'd never seen anyone die!"

"It's not your fault," he said again.

"It is," she sobbed. "It is."

Warm hands enclosed her cold ones and pulled her to her feet. Verity found herself in a soft embrace that smelled of blood and smoke, but also of sugar cookies. "It is _not_ your fault," Molly Weasley whispered. "Don't you say that." She held Verity at arm's length. "If it wasn't for you, I'd have lost two sons tonight."

Verity cried harder than ever, but no longer solely of grief. She was exhausted, physically, mentally, however many ways one could be exhausted. She was starving, she'd been tortured, she'd run on pure, wild adrenaline for hours and hours, and now all she wanted was to go back to sleep. "Don't worry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said. "I've got you." Verity gave another shuddering sob.

After five minutes, or perhaps five hours, a gentle hand tapped her shoulder. "Not now, Ron," Mrs. Weasley said quietly, but Verity turned anyway.

Ron's face was red and tear-streaked, and he looked like he might collapse before Verity, which was saying something. Still, he offered her his hand. "Could I have a word?" he asked awkwardly. "In private?" she nodded. He put her arm over his shoulder, and they walked a ways from the group.

Finally, he turned to face her. "Look," he said, "I've been a git, and you saved Fred's life—I'm trying to say sorry I thought you were messing with him." He took a deep breath and stuck his hand out.

Verity swallowed and shook his hand. "Forget it. Forget it."

Fred found them again. "Hermione wants to see you," he told Ron. "She's back with Ginny." Ron nodded and hurried away, leaving Fred and Verity alone.

Verity sat carefully on the ground. She didn't want to talk about what happened between her and Bellatrix, about the battle, about what she'd just seen. She didn't even want to hear him talk. "I need to be alone, Freddie."

He didn't walk away. "I don't believe you," he said, and he sat beside her. Verity curled up and laid her head in his lap. He was right. As long as no one spoke, she needed someone to be with her. Perhaps he needed someone to be with him too. After a few minutes, George joined them, and there they sat, the three of them. She lay with her eyes closed, Fred played with her hair, George put his arm around his twin's shoulders, and no one spoke.


	17. Epilogue: Nineteen Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's followed Verity's adventures, especially those of you who responded to it, I wanted to say the warmest thank you before this last chapter. Finally publishing this story felt like sharing a part of my growing-up with the world, and to get such a lovely reaction -- well, I was going to say I wish my younger self could see it, but to be fair, she is me. So thank you again for welcoming Verity from my life into yours, and happy reading!

"Robin, don't poke that, it's—euurgh! Oliver, _please_ let go of my leg—Freddie, we saw George this morning!" Verity groaned as she dragged her wild parade across platform nine and three-quarters. She was only thankful the steam billowing from the Hogwarts Express hid most of the people they wanted to talk to, or it would take them another hour.

"Lee!" Her oldest son had already disappeared onto the train, but she saw a flash of blond hair in one of the windows. "Lee George Weasley! Oh, for Merlin's sake, come back!" The boy disappeared from the window, and in a moment swung himself back off the steps.

"Come _on_ , Mum!" he complained, but the fourteen-year-old still flashed dazzling smiles at everyone he recognized and ran his fingers through his already messy hair. "James says he's bringing a baby hippogriff to school for Hagrid, and he wants me to help him figure out how to smuggle it past ol' Filch."

Three years at Hogwarts, Lee was well on his way to taking over the position—once filled by his father, uncle, and namesake—of Troublemaker-in-Chief. In his first year alone, he'd got fourteen detentions from four teachers, sneaked into the Forbidden Forest at least twice, and made friends with Peeves—as well as whatever he hadn't been caught at.

"You think James has a hippogriff?" Fred asked, raising his eyebrows. "Might want to check on that. He takes after Uncle George."

Verity laughed. "Since Lee takes after his father, they're cut from the same cloth." She turned back to her son. "Do you have everything?" she asked.

"Trunk is in James's compartment, clothes and broom and potion stuff and...other stuff," he trailed off with a guilty glance at his mother, "in the trunk..."

"Please tell me you didn't forget Krum again," Verity said. It had taken four attempts to get her three children and Fred out the front door, and the last thing she wanted to do when she got home was owl Lee's cat to him. She'd never sent a cat by owl post before, and she doubted normal cats liked it, much less the hyperactive kitten fathered by the inimitable Crookshanks.

"He's in his basket. Ellie Finnigan's watching him," Lee continued. "She _loves_ Krum, reckons he's adorable. I keep telling her he's not adorable when you wake up with a calico rear end on your face. Maybe I'll show her. I'd have to find a way around those stairs, but I could bribe one of the other girls to take him." He bit his lip.

"I want you to watch out for Robin."

Lee came crashing to earth. " _Mum!_ It's a train! She can find her own way! Besides, she'll embarrass me in front of the boys."

Robin, who was starting her first year, stuck her tongue out at her brother. "I can find Rose on my own, Mum. I don't want to go with him anyways. He'll embarrass me in front of the girls." She tossed her fiery curls as Fred laughed.

Robin was their only daughter, and the child who inherited Fred's Quidditch talent. Last year a stray Bludger had knocked her front teeth crooked, of which she was immensely proud. Her goal was to be a Beater on her House team, whichever House that turned out to be.

"I'm grown up, Mum. I don't need a gross babysitter."

Lee paused a moment, unsure whether to focus on the insult or the fact he was now free. He chose the latter. "Thanks, Robbie Kate," he said, tugging her hair.

"Hey!" She whipped her new wand out of her jacket and jabbed it into her brother's chest.

"Woah, not so fast!" Fred snatched her wand away from her, ignoring her protests. "You use that wrong, you'll get it taken away."

"I never thought I'd hear a Weasley twin say that," Verity giggled. "Are you sure you can go by yourself, Robin?"

"Lee can take me instead, Mum," said Oliver, who clutched Verity's hand and looked up at her with a sweet smile. He was seven and a little shy, and he charmed everyone he met. She suspected he might be the Slytherin in the family, for all the right reasons. She bent and kissed him.

"Not yet, Mr. Oliver. But don't worry, you'll be off before you know it."

Oliver was already on another train of thought. "Mummy, what's a blood traitor?" he asked, turning his head upside-down to read the words that still faintly scarred the back of Verity's hand.

She paused. "There used to be bad people," she said carefully, "who thought we shouldn't like Muggles, and they called people who did like them blood traitors."

"Grandpa Weasley likes Muggles," he volunteered.

"Grandpa Weasley _loves_ Muggles," Fred corrected with a grin. "Haven't I told you about his flying car, and the time Uncle George and Uncle Ron and I flew it to Uncle Harry's in the middle of the night and rescued him?"

Oliver had heard the story a million times, but he beamed as though it was entirely new. "Tell me again, Daddy," he clamored. Fred began the story again, but his voice was drowned out by the train's whistle.

"Oh my goodness." Verity realized it was almost eleven. "Fine, go, but if I get _any_ owls from school..."

"What makes you think you'd get those?" Verity rolled her eyes, recalling the stack they were using to prop up the wireless. He gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek before vanishing inside the train.

"Bye, Robin," she said, hugging her daughter. "We'll write. Say hello to Professor Longbottom for your father."

"And Peeves," Fred added.

Verity shot him a look, but said, "Fine, and Peeves. But if he's carrying anything _be careful_. No getting your brother to steal you a broom from the broomshed; you've been practicing all summer. Don't borrow his, either. And don't forget—" Robin had already dashed onto the train, which was starting to move. She hung out the window and waved until the Hogwarts Express disappeared from the platform in a whirl of steam. Verity sighed. "Oh, Freddie. Robin is going."

She remembered her first trip on the Hogwarts Express, standing alone and watching the people around her say goodbye to their families, looking out the train window and knowing the whispering on the other side of the car was about her. How different it was for her daughter, who had friends and family to sit by and a brother to take care of her and no one yet who didn't like her.

"I know," he said as they turned to leave. "Last week she was three years old and getting lost in the shop."

She tried to cheer up. "And we found her with the Pygmy Puffs in a barrel."

Fred rested his chin on the top of her head. "She'll be home for the holidays," he said bracingly. "She's not gone forever." He saw through her brave smile; of course he did, no one knew her better. He hoisted Oliver onto his back and put his arm around Verity's shoulders. "Oliver, have I told you about the time Uncle George and I escaped from mean ol' Professor Umbridge?" he said.

"The evil pink toad lady?" Oliver asked excitedly.

"That's the one. See, one day Uncle Harry needed a distraction…"


End file.
